Bookman
by Dhampir72
Summary: This is the story of Bookman and how Lavi became his apprentice. It follows their hardships and adventures together throughout the years until they reach the Black Order. CHAPTER 38 ONLINE.
1. Bookman's Arrival

**Bookman: Volume One**

**An Epic Fiction Inspired by Katsura Hoshino's **_**-Man**_

**  
By Dhampir72**

**PART ONE**

**Chapter 1: Bookman's Arrival**

The last time he had stepped foot on Clan territory, it had been a cold winter night in the tenth month of the year 1870. He recalled it to be so, as it had been three months following what would be known as The Battle of Sedan during what would soon be referred to as the Franco-Prussian War. That would be recorded in history: the names, the dates, the major players. Everything had concluded and wrapped itself neatly into a tiny package of information. It would be passed on for future generations to read, but never to learn from or understand.

Because in the Bookman's experience, people never learned from history.

The Himalayas were covered in snow, just as they had been on that winter night five years ago. It was still the awe-inspiring winding spine of craggy cliffs and steep, white drops that stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see. In the cold morning air, wisps of low-lying clouds drifted through the pristine valleys and peaks, almost like the visible breath of the range that had lived for so long. How much history had they seen over the years. The one known as the Bookman could only wonder as he trekked through knee-high snow towards the peak of one particular mountain. Although he was spry for the age of eighty-seven and despite the fact that he wasn't climbing Qomolangma, it still felt as though he was ascending to that altitude, where the air thinned and became so cold that it became hard to draw breath. It was clean, unpolluted air, and Bookman found that despite the complications it left for someone his age, he much preferred it to the dirty, sooty air of the European cities he had left behind.

The place he sought came into sight in a glimmer of sunlight, enhanced by the reflective properties of the endless amounts of snow. Directly on the border between Xizang's southern province and Nepal's northern region, there sat a humble, yet wonderfully exquisite structure. At first, one might believe it to be the home of reclusive Buddhist monks, who took themselves out of the world in order to meditate upon it. However, as one carefully navigated the slippery treacherous pathway of winding slate towards the building, it was easy to discern that it was nothing of the sort. The building itself had seemingly strategically nestled itself into the mountain so that only the main entrance and several of the higher pavilions were visible from the outside. The slate gave way to a lacquered walkway of red teak, protected by a peaked roof plated in copper shingles. Before him, a massive, ornate door beckoned him closer. Two _shishi_ sat on either side of it, their lion-like marble features formidable and fierce though cast in stone. They seemed to growl as he passed: the guardians of the secret place where History was Housed.

Nearing the door, Bookman's gloved fingers curled themselves around one of the two brass knockers. As he pulled back, it creaked from lack of use and exposure to the elements. However, it still made quite the resounding indicator that someone was outside. Even from where he stood, Bookman could hear the sound echoing inside the structure, ringing out in the cavernous hallways. Only twice did he have to knock before the door was opened and he was allowed to step inside. The illumination from the morning had gone, giving way to darkness as the door closed behind him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden change in light. His other senses recovered much more quickly: the heating system immediately soothed his cold fingertips and other extremities. Meanwhile, the heavy scent of incense and parchment assaulted him, not unpleasantly so, with a spiciness and warmth that Bookman felt would be appropriate to identify as nostalgia. But nostalgia or not, Bookman knew that it was not his home. The structure was just a place to return to. There was no fondness for it, only obligation and duty.

The Bookman was not allowed to call any place _home_.

"The Honorable Bookman has returned," said two voices from the floor before him. Two boys were prostrate before him, bowing respectfully in their navy haori and zubon. With his eyes once again under his control, Bookman was able to discern the golden cord upon their upper right arms, signifying their rank. They were the Door Keepers: those who protected and guarded the doors from enemies, but also provided a service to those who were visiting allies or affiliates with the Clan. Truly, Bookman acknowledged that it must have been the dullest sort of work possible within their organization, as many of those who were members of their prestigious group held permanent residence inside their headquarters for many years at a time, leaving the Door Keepers to do nothing for most of their days on duty.

"Please allow us to assist you," they said, once again in unison. Bookman allowed them to take his cloak and walking staff, where he knew it would be stored in a specific room for easy retrieval when his time came to leave at the end of his stay. However, he did not allow them to take his traveling pack or the scroll cases he had carried for the entirety of his journey, wanting to see them safely off himself. They provided him with a pair of comfortable silk slippers in exchange for his hiking boots and a Clan haori for extra warmth during his stay. Afterwards, the two boys were once again at his feet, bowing in respect as they waited for further instructions.

"Thank the both of you," Bookman replied. The boys stood and parted, allowing Bookman to pass between the two of them.

"Thank you, Honorable Bookman," they answered politely from behind him, as Bookman followed a pathway dimly lit by a myriad of candles on both sides. Eventually, the hallway stopped before a _shoji_ door, which he opened and slid shut behind him. Beyond the door, Bookman found himself in a hallway lit by bright lanterns. The polished floor shone as he passed beneath the sources of light, his feet not stopping so that his eyes could admire the works of art tucked into tiny alcoves on either side of him. Instead, he quickened his pace in order to reach the end of the corridor, shifting the scroll cases beneath his arm as he exited the extended foyer.

Beyond the entrance, headquarters became one with nature: the lacquered support beams and floorboards melded into the craggy insides of the heart of the mountain. It became a bit colder, but not uncomfortably so, as the heating system at the core of the structure kept the inside rooms at a steady temperature all year round. To Bookman, the place had always been in good taste somewhere between a simplistic mansion and a Japanese dojo. Everything had very clean lines with little clutter. It was almost as if the Bookman aesthetic itself had manifested into visual attributes. Everything was defined and strict, without excess, much like the solitary life the historian known only as the Bookman led.

His destination was in South, where the Main Archives had been located for over 5,000 years. It had always been such, Bookman realized as he called a lift to his current floor. The structure had been divided many centuries ago to mirror the four points on the compass rose. Scattered through the wings were the libraries, annexes, and archives where thousands of years of history resided and was routinely cared for in order to preserve it for many more generations. However, the Clan was not purely a historical resting place for documents and records: it also housed many students and professors, as well as scientists, pharmacists, and other scholars.

The lift dinged when it reached his floor and Bookman stepped inside, indicating for the elevator to bring him to the second to lowest level of the building. The Main Archives and Library were located there. It was the place where Bookmen from the beginning of time had stored their knowledge. It was the place where the current Bookman was going to file away what he had witnessed for the past five years. It was the history that would never be widely known or spoken of.

It was the history behind history.

Within a short span of time, Bookman arrived at the Main Archives in South. It was a poorly-lit place due to its purpose for storage. In addition to this, using candles was strictly prohibited, as one wrong slip could ruin the history of the entire human race. Instead, a new invention known as a halophosphate phosphor-florescent lantern was employed, which could cast its illumination far in any direction, providing ample light by which to see and read. They were stored at the entrance in a cubicle like structure and Bookman helped himself to one in order to venture further inside.

Not much had changed in the past five years. It was still the large space that seemed to be consumed with darkness and knowledge. Secrets seemed to embrace everything about the library, much like the fine layer of dust and spider webs that proliferated on the shelves. These shelves with their secrets and dust and knowledge stretched from floor to ceiling, cradling volumes upon volumes of hand-written tomes and manuscripts.

"Well, look who came back. My, my, isn't this quite the reunion?"

Bookman turned, casting his eyes through the dark to pinpoint where the voice had come from. A circle of light appeared in his peripheral vision and soon, Bookman could see who it was who had spoken. It was a woman of Indian descent, sometime in her late forties. Behind the washed out light she carried, her skin appeared papery white, when in fact Bookman knew it to be the color of the sand in the Saudi Arabian desert.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" she said with a smile. It looked dark, twisted by shadows, but Bookman knew it was trick of light. It was truly the kindest smile he had seen in many years.

"Indeed it has, Miss Dakshina," Bookman answered.

"Come, let us speak in a better atmosphere than this one," Dakshina offered, with a small bow. She led him through the darkness for some time, Bookman following her silhouette and the train of her _haku patasi_. Then suddenly, from above, a light larger than their hand-held lanterns came to life with a resounding click and illuminated the main desk and work areas. The light was a paler blue, less harsh than the blinding white from before. Bookman could then see her more fully: everything from the maroon _bindi_ upon her forehead to the way her hair had been clipped up into a severe bun. Even knowing her for so many years, Dakshina was still a rare oddity, considering how the Clan majorly consisted of men. Women were to hold only minor offices and titles of lesser importance. But Dakshina was the first woman in their history to hold the office of Archive Master. To be Master of the Archives was a prestigious and noble title, requiring that the individual be intelligent, patient, and quite meticulous. And if anyone, Dakshina possessed these qualities to the highest degree.

"Now, that's a bit better, isn't it?" she said, turning off her lantern. Bookman followed suit and set it on the counter beside hers. She turned to him and once again smiled warmly. "Where have your travels taken you these past years, Bookman?" she inquired.

"Many places," Bookman answered.

"Vague and mysterious as usual," she replied. He set his scroll cases down upon the marble countertop. Dakshina observed them without comment, her keen, quiet eyes appraising their size. Upon the lock catch, the Clan crest shone beneath the overhead light: an open book, the compass rose, a quill and sheaf of parchment, and a scale that was perfectly balanced. All four symbols comprised a visual portrait of the principles that had been upheld by the Bookmen since the Clan's initial establishment. The open book represented erudition. The compass rose signified extensive travel. The quill and scroll illustrated the recordation of history. The balanced scale exemplified the most important attribute of the Bookmen: impartial, unbiased judgment. All of these qualities were required to be upheld and fulfilled by the ones who recorded history.

"These are for the Archives," Bookman said, removing the scrolls from their cases. Dakshina aided him in this, her touch cautious to make sure that the utmost care was taken in preserving the thin pages from damage. From beneath the desk, she produced three cylindrical cases made of a clear, synthetic material. With the same amount of care as before, Dakshina slid the scrolls inside of each case until they were entirely enveloped in the protective fabric. Afterwards, she zipped the top closed on all of them and pulled a cap open on the very top, preparing to vacuum seal them so that oxygen would not destroy the information over time.

"Lavi," Dakshina said, calling the name over her shoulder. Bookman did not see anyone come at her beckoning, but heard the scuffle of clumsy feet moving forward in the dark. When they stopped, she directed her words downward: "See that these are prepared for storage."

"Yes ma'am," replied a voice—a male child's tenor—from behind the counter. Within seconds, a small child's face appeared beside Dakshina's left elbow. In the florescent light, his complexion was pale and washed out to make him appear rather sickly. To add to this notion, he was rather small and looked a bit underfed. However, it was neither his pallor nor size that attracted Bookman's attention, but rather the black patch that obscured the child's right eye. The left scrutinized him for a moment: a rather eerie green in the overhead light that Bookman met with unwavering indifference. Soon, the boy's gaze dropped and his small arms took up one of the scrolls before he disappeared behind the counter again. Bookman heard his small footsteps hurrying away towards the back preparatory and storage room. It wasn't until his echoing footfalls were out of earshot that Bookman inquired:

"Your apprentice?"

"The Chancellor will want to see you," Dakshina replied, evading his question with ease. The way her hands continuously smoothed the fabric of the plastic scroll cases made Bookman wonder exactly what it was that had made her so nervous about his question.

"I would not doubt it," Bookman answered, pulling the empty scroll cases toward him. He placed the smallest inside of another and then that one inside of the largest in order to consolidate space.

"You should see to him immediately. After all, you would not his mood to turn sour, would you?" Dakshina asked, a teasing smile in her words. The boy's footsteps were coming back, returning to retrieve another scroll as she had asked him to. Bookman did not say anything and instead shouldered his case before turning on his heel to walk towards the door. Dakshina's voice stopped him before he could make it out of the circle of light around the desk.

"Oh, and Bookman," she said, causing him to turn and look at her. The young Indian woman's face was set in a severe look that indicated she would not take any disobedience or defiance from him. "Do not make him angry." The Bookman smirked at her, his eyes flickering momentarily to the small boy that had appeared at her side once more. But his curiosity would be sated eventually, he knew, and the old man opted instead to continue on his way toward the exit of the library.

"I won't make any promises," he said quietly. He was a footstep outside of the archive when he heard Dakshina's echoed response:

"I heard that."

**pqpq**

Revised 11/06/2009

Dhampir72


	2. The Chancellor

**Chapter 2: The Chancellor**

The Southern Archives were the furthest point away from where the Chancellor held residence. Bookman had to travel from the very base of the mountain to the summit to see the man who held one of the highest titles within the Clan. He lived in the main house at the very top, just as all the others had before him. Continuously attended to by Ambassadors and Keepers of the House, the Chancellor lived in high comfort as he ruled over the majority of Clan activities. The title itself commanded respect and reverence, but to Bookman, who himself held the highest title of Exploratory Historian within their organization, he found the Chancellor to be an annoying old codger with a foul attitude.

Because there were more lifts than stairs, Bookman found that he was unable to enjoy that time-consuming activity known as dawdling. It wasn't that he was afraid of the Chancellor; far from it, in fact. He felt no threat from that man, but being in his presence was something that irritated Bookman more than anything. The meetings were always long and arduous, where Bookman would be forced to put all of his training to the test in order to not strangle the old man on the spot. Needless to say, Bookman was in the North Section earlier than he would have liked, seeing as how he would rather attend a Pagan sacrifice than listen to the old coot speak about such nonsensical things. However, if it was the Chancellor himself who was the one being sacrificed at aforementioned Pagan event, then Bookman would have made sure to reserve his seats in advance. It wasn't hate, per say, but more so a long-tie schoolboy rivalry gone sour due to too much arrogance and pride stretched out over several decades.

When Bookman reached the ornate outer chamber of the Chancellor's dwelling, he was forced to ring a bell in order to announce his presence. Everything about the décor annoyed him: from the gold plated eaves to the lanterns encased in precious metals and stones. It was such a waste of natural resources, not to mention money. The presence of these objects, in addition to many others of extensive value, was to impress those who came to wait upon the Chancellor. In fact, audience with him was a prestigious event, or so Bookman had been told. He knew of many people who had been waiting their entire lives to meet with him once. Bookman considered them to be the lucky ones and found that he was slightly jealous that they had evaded that man's presence for so long.

Soft footsteps and the tinkle of tortoise shell alerted Bookman to an additional presence in the room. Looking up, he saw an Ambassador had come to greet him. She was a beautiful girl of perhaps ten and seven who had most likely been given to the Clan as a gift from some group affiliated with their organization. She wore a Japanese style _kimono_ of red silk. The sleeves and _obi_ sash were so long that they trailed on the floor behind her like a train. Her black hair was pulled tightly into a half-moon shaped _taka shimada_ on the top of her head. When she moved to escort him silently down a pristine, teak hallway, Bookman heard the sound of her _kanzashi_ hair ornament making the loveliest sound as the pieces of shell and glass caressed one another. It reminded Bookman of a city he had once passed through on the shore of the Mediterranean, where each house had a wind chime made of sea glass hanging from a hook on their patios. It was the nicest walk Bookman had taken in a long time.

The Ambassador brought him to a _shoji_ screen door, knelt down and opened it for him with a bow, signaling him that he should enter. He removed his flats and walked barefoot on the _tatami_ mats inside. The door closed behind him swiftly, leaving him in a simple room with very little color other than beige. On the far wall, one of the screens was open to reveal the veranda. Beyond it, Bookman could see the Himalaya range in all its spectacular, white beauty. The view was ruined when the Chancellor appeared from that doorway, led by another Ambassador in flowing silks of blue and teal.

The Chancellor was an old man with a long, white beard that he could tuck into his belt if he so chose to. He had eyebrows that were so unbelievable, it seemed as if they had gone feral years ago and began growing wild upon his face. His eyes were small and he tended to squint so much it looked as if he didn't have any at all. Perhaps he did this because he couldn't see through the curtain of eyebrows, or maybe because his age wasn't kind to him and he had lost some of his sight. Whatever the reason may have been, the Chancellor himself was quite the spectacle in physical appearance, and even more so when he opened his mouth.

Bookman had never found something equal to the annoying tenor of that old man's voice.

"Bookman," he said, as his Ambassador helped him take his seat on a mountain of cushions she had procured from the closet. He settled down, old and brittle, but still spiteful, that much was certain.

"Chancellor," Bookman answered, forcing the muscles in his neck to incline his head in a small gesture of feigned politeness. That was the only bow the Chancellor was going to get from him. Bookman knew that some in the Clan threw themselves on the ground and groveled like pigs before him in fear and respect, but Bookman had no fear of him and certainly nothing that could be considered reverence. The Chancellor knew that his presence was not imposing to Bookman and that created an animosity that hung heavy in the air. The Ambassador excused themselves from their company, perhaps because she didn't want to be caught in the middle of the violent storm brewing between them or maybe it was because she found the Chancellor as annoying as Bookman had for years.

"And where have your travels taken you these past years?" the Chancellor asked in an attempt at a conversational tone, much in the same way as Dakshina had down in South Archives.

"Many places," Bookman answered, just as he had to the young woman earlier.

"You haven't checked in for a while," he commented.

"I have been quite busy," Bookman said. It was short and precise, as Bookman felt there was no need for excess words when speaking with imbeciles.

"Too busy to stop home and see old friends?" the Chancellor inquired. He was smiling, or at least it seemed that way. It was difficult to tell what sort of facial expression he made underneath all that hair. However, Bookman held a reputation as one of the best interpreters of body language and speech and his kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed in suspicion. The Chancellor was baiting him.

"I was busy fulfilling my primary obligations as Bookman. In addition, it should also be noted that it is not my duty to _check in_ as you so put it. I am certainly capable of looking after myself," Bookman said in reply, his defenses rising, preparing for an attack he knew had to be coming.

"Hmm…That sounds dreadfully boring," the Chancellor said, fiddling with one of the silken tassels on the pillow beneath him. Bookman watched without saying a word. The Chancellor seemed to be slipping in his old age, as he normally was not too obvious when toying with someone. At that moment, he was not only being obvious, but he was flaunting it. That annoyed Bookman, along with many other qualities that the Chancellor possessed. For one, the man was eighty-something and he had more hair than Bookman, who was several years (a good several years, he'd like to think) younger than the Chancellor. Secondly, the Chancellor was tall, which Bookman's one-hundred and forty centimeters could not even attempt to overcome. And finally, Bookman's initial feelings towards the man: he was an irritating old coot who received some sort of cheap thrill by making people do whatever he wanted. Although Bookman did not know exactly what that _was_, he thought himself to be younger, smarter, and a lot more cunning than the Chancellor. Therefore, it all evened out.

It was all about remaining collected and careful from there on out.

"Tea, Bookman? Share a few stories from the road?" the Chancellor asked, pretending terribly to be jovial and kind. It was disconcerting, but Bookman would not allow himself to show outwardly those feelings of confusion and distrust.

"I'd rather not, Chancellor," Bookman declined, as politely as possible. But, as if on cue, the cerulean and turquoise-clad Ambassador returned with tea and scones upon a small silver tray. She kneeled down beside the two of them in her elaborate robes, silently pouring each of them a cup. Bookman and the Chancellor did not say a word in her presence and even after she left in a rustle of silk, the strained silence remained.

"Do I have business here, or may I leave?" Bookman asked with forced civility. He was more than ready to quit the company of the Chancellor. His dislike of the man had only increased when Bookman found himself being pulled along by the Chancellor's invisible puppet strings. He knew when he was being toyed with and did not appreciate it in the slightest.

"Yes, actually I do have a bit of official business to discuss with you," the Chancellor said, making a show of placing his teacup down onto the tray before dabbing at his hairy upper lip with the corner of a silken napkin. When he was finally through, the other man looked at Bookman and continued pleasantly: "And I know that after I tell you what this official business is, you're going to make that face that says you'd rather _gen hou-zi bi diu-shi_ than do what I'm going to tell you to do."

"Go on," Bookman said in reply, his eyebrow raised slightly in questioning. He realized that those words made the situation beyond that of baiting: it was an outright order from the highest power in their Clan. In truth, they were equals, wherein the Chancellor ruled over his domain in the mountain while Bookman controlled his journey and logs in the outside world. But when it came to Clan Law, the Chancellor reigned supreme. Bookman settled upon glaring at the Chancellor, wishing that looks could actually kill, or at least maim.

"See, you're making the face already and I haven't even said anything yet," the Chancellor said, chuckling in what some might consider a good-humored manner. To Bookman, however, he only heard the maniacal laugh of a manipulative moron.

"And this said business is?" Bookman pushed, feeling an angry pulse beginning to beat in his right eye. He did his best to sedate his irritation, not wanting the Chancellor to win. It was difficult to control this when the bearded man across from him did not answer and instead reached beside them to pour himself another cup of tea. Most certainly, it had to be the most drawn out expedition in tea-drinking the world had ever seen, or at least it felt that way to Bookman, who was entertaining thoughts of how many ways he could kill the Chancellor with a chopstick in less than thirty seconds.

"The business is," the Chancellor replied, pausing to take another sip of tea, "succession."

"Succession," Bookman repeated, not making it sound like a question. Truly, Bookman had not expected this conversation to come upon him so soon.

"Yes. You need an apprentice," the Chancellor said.

"And why is that?" Bookman asked, folding his arms casually across his chest.

"Well, let's face it, Bookman. You aren't getting any younger," the Chancellor answered, his voice haughty and teasing in ill humor.

"And neither are you, but that doesn't mean anything," Bookman said in retaliation. It took all he had to not smirk as the Chancellor glared at him. He was sure that if they had been keeping score, Bookman would have been a point in the lead.

"And have you chosen a successor yet?" Bookman inquired. The Chancellor was quite up there in the years. It probably would have been wise for him to have chosen someone by now.

"This isn't about me, _Bookman_," he answered with a sniff of indifference towards Bookman, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his impeccable robe.

"You're older than I, _Chancellor_," Bookman challenged. He would not take on an apprentice until the Chancellor did, because it was truly not fair that he should have to suffer with some young whelp while the other man lived out his merry days in luxury and ignorance. The Chancellor did not say anything to his tone of voice, instead looking at Bookman with a smile.

"Ah, but I do have more hair," he said, smoothing his fingertips along the length of his beard. Bookman thought longingly of having more hair than just the thin strands he managed to keep up in a ponytail, but pushed those wants aside quickly. He would not let the Chancellor win with such petty games.

"What in the hell does that have to do with anything?" Bookman inquired, frown pulling at his lips as he resumed his intense glare from before. His winning score had fallen and tied during the course of their argument. However, the game had been played long enough. The Chancellor held a higher title than Bookman within Clan headquarters and that meant he could, and would, end it when and where he wanted.

"Before you leave on your next assignment, you must have chosen an apprentice whom you will consider to become your successor," the Chancellor said, his voice losing all pleasantness in exchange for solemn severity. "There will be no exceptions. _Dong ma_?"

"_Dang ran_," Bookman answered, unable to do anything more than that. He was forced to submit to those demands, but that did not keep him from sniping a bit more with the Chancellor before Bookman took his leave. The Ambassador in red escorted him out to the main lobby where another beautiful woman in emerald robes then brought Bookman to his temporary chambers. It was a smaller dwelling within the main house that served the purpose of guest room to the returning Bookmen for centuries. It was comfortable and modest with a nice view, but there was no room for clutter or books. Bookman thought that it took away some of its charm.

He found a heavy winter _haori_ folded neatly in the closet for his use and Bookman pulled it on before opening the sliding door to the covered outcropping outside. There was a heavy chill due to the altitude and time of year, but the _haori _kept most of the cold away as Bookman removed his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette in fine paper. Afterwards, he lit it and breathed in deeply, soothing his stress with the nicotine and other addictives. The task before him he knew would be troublesome. Choosing an apprentice was something that had to be done carefully, as the person chosen for the position had to be well qualified for it. And although Bookman knew that facing the prospect of succession would arise eventually, he had hoped it would have been later instead of so soon. He exhaled into the late afternoon air as he recalled the life he had led after his master had died: Bookman had journeyed alone and spent many years without the company (or interference) of any second party. Being known as the Bookman was to walk a solitary path. It had always been that way and so taking care of another person was something that would be foreign to him. How would it feel to have someone call him "Master" as he had done to his own master all those years ago? Bookman finished off his cigarette before sliding the door closed again. His _shishou_ had been the one to hold the name Bookman, which he himself now carried, and it seemed strange to know that the same name would be passed onto someone else entirely.

Such was the passing of time.

Taking up his pack, Bookman unloaded a few things from within: a thick roll of parchment, an ink well, and a quill. He put those items into a smaller satchel before leaving his quarters. Taking the lift down to East Wing, he had every intention of seeking out an old acquaintance in order to seek a professional opinion on eligible candidates. But since it was a Sunday evening, there were very few people about and the department within East was locked up tight. The few people that saw him pass through East whispered amongst themselves, but nothing more than that.

Without any recourse, Bookman took to the library. It was empty, with many of the students and staff most likely at dinner, so he had it entirely to himself. He sat down at a mahogany desk next to the large bay window; the same place where he had situated himself daily while studying before he left on his journey as the Bookman's apprentice. It truly had been so long ago, Bookman realized, admonishing himself in the next moment for falling victim to such nostalgia. It was this place that did it every time. Bookmen weren't supposed to have a home, but it was difficult to say that he was not attached when he had spent half his life learning inside these walls.

If he was allowed to say anything, it would be that he enjoyed where he currently sat. It was the best seat in the entire Clan, for it was in the company of books, but all within view of the vast wilderness that was the world beyond the mountain. It was the balance that allowed Bookman's mind to quiet from its thoughts. As he prepared his workspace, he strained his eyes to see beyond the frosty window and into the indigo skies. He could see the constellation Horologium and what could have been Caelum, but the angle of the window prevented him from seeing the cluster of stars in its entirety, so he remained uncertain.

With limited light, Bookman went to retrieve a lamp from the front foyer. Because the East Library was not used for storage, gas lamp-light was not harmful to any of the books, but it was imperative to be extremely careful with open flame around so much history. He brought it back to his desk and lit it, casting everything into a warm, orange glow. The tan parchment spread itself out before him, held at top by a clip attached to the desk in order to keep the parchment from rolling while it was being written upon. But Bookman did not write immediately, tapping his quill with a regular tempo as he thought things through

Clan tradition had always had a bracket for the age group of candidates eligible for apprenticeship. It could be anywhere between fifteen to twenty-seven years old. However, in some cases, the scale could tip younger or older, as the Bookman himself had the final say. Bookman himself was selected at the age of thirty-three to become apprentice to his master, so he knew that he should not limit himself to age alone. The one quality he was forced to seek out was that all prospects be male. Bookman found this to be patriarchal and rather insolent of the Clan, seeing as how young women were by no means inferior in intelligence to men. But, the Clan Law had been set and there was no changing it, at least not for a while. So, Bookman knew that it was to be a boy, young and inexperienced, who would become his traveling companion for the rest of his years.

Bookman thought that it was the Chancellor's way of ensuring that his life was completely miserable before he died.

"_Hun dan_," Bookman thought bitterly. He shook his head and picked up his quill in order to put together his letters. Without being able to consult anyone directly, he would instead inquire after the Four Shepherds of the Clan to help him.

The North Shepherd was the one who had the most contact with the world beyond their organization. He was the one who controlled all trade and business with independent merchants, universities, and other establishments world-wide. In addition, he was also the one majorly responsible for the selection of capable students to be entered into their educational system, as the blood relations within their Clan had stretched too thin hundreds of years ago. The North Shepherd was essentially the person in charge of enrollment, which meant that those who went to school or decided to work within the Clan had their identities erased from the outside world. They had no paper trail to follow them, no birth records or any other documentation that would attest to their existence. To be a part of the Clan was to subject oneself to anonymity. The North Shepherd was the one who ensured that this be strictly upheld.

The East Shepherd oversaw the Sciences and was responsible for the establishment of research and experiments that was to benefit their Clan. As East Shepherd, it was required that much care be used in the selection of staff and equipment in all laboratories, infirmaries, and apothecaries. He was the one to oversee that Alchemy was performed responsibly by all scientists, that Astronomy was studied in a practical and non-superstitious manner, and that the Apothocarian practices were overseen in order to protect the health and safety of all those living within the mountain. Bookman knew the East Shepherd rather well and understood that it was quite the work keeping up with so many responsibilities, but Enoch performed his duties well and he was a capable, though rather eccentric, person.

The South Shepherd was the one who had complete influence over the Main Archives. He was the one who dictated to Dakshina, the Archive Master, on how records were to be logged, tagged, and sealed away. He himself had the obligation strictly to the traveling Bookmen: wherein most of the technologies he produced or developed were directly beneficial to the historians of the clan. In addition to this, the South Shepherd oversaw the preservation of all books and manuscripts within the South Library and storage annexes.

The West Shepherd was the last Bookman wrote to. He had to be eloquent in the way he approached him, as Rong was a rather strange man. The native Chinese presided over the Dojo, ministering the way of the Arts. He was completely responsible for the encouragement of all artistic pursuits, whether they be concrete or more abstract. The way of the sword, brush, and pen were under his complete jurisdiction, along with the West Library and the minor archives in the West Wing. All were governed under what Bookman could truly say was Rong's "iron fist".

In each letter, Bookman explained his reason for writing them: in order to implore them for recommendations. He asked each of them to select three of their top students. From the twelve recommended, Bookman was sure to have the smartest and most able candidates to choose from.

He could not and would not deal with imbeciles.

From those twelve, Bookman had a series of essays in mind in order to select the top five. All five remaining candidates would be interviewed in person in order for Bookman to see if their personality and temperaments were correct for the position. He was looking for specific qualities in these boys: the ability to remain unbiased, fair, patient, and calm. To be a Bookman, one had to be unobtrusive, yet present. One had to distinguish himself as a person who could take any obstacle and overcome it without faltering and who would always move forward, motivated by the quest for more knowledge and understanding. Without the drive and dedication, it would be impossible to be considered a Bookman.

Just as he was finishing one of the final pages of the essay questions, Bookman heard light footsteps from his right, perhaps three or four rows of shelves away. The light from his lamp was rather low and the sky outside had become much darker. When Bookman checked his pocket watch, he found that it was very late. Who would be up and about at such a time, unless there was practicum or exams tomorrow? Light appeared near the stack directly behind him in his peripheral. A hand then manifested itself, holding a glowing lantern out before a small body that Bookman was able to identify once it stepped beyond the obstruction of the bookshelf. It was the redheaded boy with the eye patch from earlier in the South Archives: most likely Dakshina's apprentice. He stopped and looked at him with that same, eerie stare. The yellow light had softened it a little more, but it was still slightly uncomfortable to have one eye scrutinize so deeply. But before Bookman could think anything further of it, the boy turned and continued on his way, a heavy book—large enough to be considered a tome—beneath his arm. He was almost out of sight before he stopped in his tracks.

"Don't forget to get rid of that flame on your way out," the boy said, turning to look over his shoulder, "or else Enoch will get mad." Bookman was a bit surprised to hear the child use the East Shepherd's name so casually, but said nothing about it. He also remained silent on the subject of Bookman's possible negligence regarding the lamp. If anyone knew the value of the library, Bookman did.

"Sorry," added the boy with a small shrug, "but some kids from West nearly burned the place down the other day when they left one lit on that same table."

"I see," Bookman said, and left it at that. To Bookman, the conversation was over and so he went back to his letter without another thought about the boy standing there with his too-big book and single green eye. He didn't say anything more, most likely sensing that their interaction was over, and so he continued on his way. Bookman paused in mid-sentence to watch as the ring of light moved further and further away before it, and the boy's footsteps, disappeared all together.

Bookman added a few more lines and let the last letter dry. The remaining pages were folded neatly in preparation to be put in envelopes the next morning. When the ink dried on the fourth sheaf, Bookman did the same to it before packing away his things for the night.

He did not forget to extinguish the lamp.

**pqpq**

Revised 11/7/2009

Dhampir72


	3. Dakshina's Tale

**Chapter 3: Dakshina's Tale**

The following morning, Bookman awoke in his chambers sometime in the late morning. It was much later than he normally slept in, opting to start his days sometime around sunrise and stopping only when it was too dark and dangerous to travel any further. But Bookman found himself lying in bed even after he awoke, for it had been too long since he had been able to sleep in such a comfortable bed after so many years of travel. A roof over his head and a place to sleep were not always guaranteed, so when they came along, it was a luxury. Many a night Bookman spent in places where the word "bed" was not a word in the native-speaking vocabulary. Other times, Bookman believed that sleeping out in the middle of an open field was a lot healthier than lying down in some of the dirtier rest houses. Alas, the life of a Bookman was not always as glamorous as others made it sound.

After dressing and having a morning cigarette on the veranda, Bookman found a small tray table had been set up for him in the main room. It was a delicious spread of steamed rice, miso soup, a sweet omelet, and pickled ginger. A fresh pot of green tea was also on the tray. It must have just been set out, as everything was still hot and steaming as if it had just been made. Beside his meal, there was a stack of envelopes, three from each of the Four Shepherds. In each envelope, Bookman found there to be several pages of information in regard to the student recommended. The Shepherds were quick in their replies, but apparently the Ambassadors were quicker. After all, Bookman had only laid out the letters on the table the previous night and received all replies by that morning. They were also the ones most likely responsible for bringing him breakfast, waiting until they heard him wake before presenting the food. Truly, they were trained well, though Bookman found their station within the Clan to be rather sad. In the end, they were only to be prettily adorned servants.

As Bookman worked his way through his meal, he breezed over the recommendations as he ate. They all seemed suitable enough, but it was truly up to the written tests to see who would proceed to the next level. Writing and being able to effectively record was the most important quality of a Bookman, so it was imperative that they be somewhat coherent in the practice. He would wait and see if they were capable when the essays arrived. In the meantime, Bookman went out onto the patio and smoked another cigarette. It was a bad habit he had picked up while recording in France, but coming back to Asia was no improvement, as China and many other countries were in the business of growing tobacco for trade with the West. He much preferred the tobacco in Asia, as it was stronger (especially after the Opium Wars with Great Britain), but liked the presentation in Europe, where the cigarettes came pre-wrapped and packaged. He was forced to roll his own, which was fine, yet time consuming.

After smoking, Bookman closed the door and decided to amuse himself with a walk around. It was better than sitting idle, wasting the hours away with useless thought and no action. Luckily, it was quiet and still, as many students and instructors had classes in session. Instead of seeking out Enoch like he had wanted to the previous evening, Bookman took the lift down to South. The archives were dark, with no lights anywhere in sight. With the main area not in use, Bookman wandered down the lamp lit halls until he found a door propped open with a wooden stool. A strong, astringent smell wafted into the hallway. Bookman knew the smell almost immediately: Sealant No. 7. Part of his training before becoming a Bookman was in the field of preservation. Many of his classes concerned the treatment of ancient documents and how to handle them, seal them, and then file them away for future reference. With over nine-hundred thousand documents from historical civilizations and an additional two-hundred and fifty-something million logs written by historians of the Clan, there was a great interest in the field.

Bookman entered through the open door into a large, bright room with a dome ceiling. A shining chandelier made of crystal and glass hung at the center, casting everything into perfect light to see by. It was much better than the greenish fluorescents used in the archives.

"Bookman," came the greeting directly ahead of him. Dakshina stood behind a cart piled with thin wooden boxes each measuring roughly two meters long. She seemed much more beautiful and human when in the absence of darkness, even if her eyes were a little hard around the edges. Bookman was sure she was frowning underneath the white mask that covered her mouth and nose.

"Dakshina," he greeted in reply, noticing the eight or so other carts laden with document cases, waiting to be sealed. She pushed her cart to join them in the line, revealing the redheaded boy at a desk. He too wore a surgical mask in order to prevent prolonged exposure to the sealant, as it could be toxic if breathed in for extended periods of time. In his hand he held a bamboo brush, which he was coated in the translucent fluid. Then, he applied it to the tattered edges of a treated piece of parchment with a steady hand.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Bookman?" Dakshina asked, nearing him with a mask folded neatly in her hand. Bookman accepted it, but did not put it on immediately, watching the boy carefully complete the document before setting it to the side to dry. His single eye flickered upward briefly to look at Bookman, almost as if he was annoyed for having been stared at the entire time.

"Preserving records so late in the year?" Bookman asked, turning his gaze instead to Dakshina as he placed his mask on. "It's not like you."

"I admit that I did procrastinate a little this year…" she answered. He noticed that her eyes moved from his face to look at the boy. She did not try to hide it and that made Bookman wonder exactly what relationship the two shared. The boy, however, did not seem to notice their gazes, as he was busy working on another document. Or, at least that was what Bookman thought, until the redhead looked up at the two of them, dipping the top of his brush into the glass jar of sealant.

"Don't look at me," he said, before going back to his work, "I can amuse myself. Enoch is the needy one." Bookman looked at Dakshina and managed to see her embarrassed flush, even behind her mask. In a very unfeminine manner, she smacked the boy on the side of the head with a rolled up parchment roster.

"Lavi! Mind your tongue!" she warned with a slight threat in her voice.

"Why is everyone always hitting me?" Lavi asked, rubbing the side of his head with an offended glance directed her way. Before she could answer, an amused chuckle emitted from behind Bookman, announcing a fourth presence among them. He was a handsome man of around mid-forty with blond hair and an easy smile. Bookman would have known him anywhere, the East Shepherd himself: Enoch. Sweeping into the room in his golden tunic, Enoch walked with what could only be described as a swagger. He puffed out his chest self-importantly, showing off the brass Clan crest upon his breast pocket. Since Bookman had known Enoch when he was a mere child, the old man could only see the little blond boy from thirty years ago playing dress up in adult's clothes. But truly, Enoch was a grown man; that much was obvious by his prematurely graying hair and the lines that had begun to form around his eyes and mouth. He had grown up after all.

"Bookman!" he greeted good-naturedly as always, inclining his head in respect.

"Shepherd," Bookman answered, not quite as enthusiastically as Enoch had approached him, but still kindly nonetheless.

"Dakshina," Enoch said, nodding this time at her. Bookman was sure that she was smiling behind her mask and her cheeks had darkened considerably with blush.

"Enoch," she replied, pulling her mask down before bowing politely. When she looked up, Bookman could see that the corners of her lips were turned up as he had though. The two of them stared at one another for a moment: Enoch grinning stupidly at Dakshina, who was smiling prettily at him. It was not difficult to see that there was a mutual amount of affection on both sides. Lavi looked up from his work to watch the two of them, as Bookman was as well. Needless to say, it was quiet in all of their watching.

"Ahem, Lavi," Dakshina said suddenly, breaking the spell. The redhead jumped slightly as the words were directed at him, but gave her his full attention. "Don't you have work to do?" The single eye blinked at her, as if attempting to figure out what she meant by that question. But as Dakshina stared him down, he nodded quickly in clueless acquiescence, understanding that he was being dismissed despite not knowing the reason why.

"Yeah, some work. You know, not here," Lavi offered in a faltering sort of voice as he put the lid back onto the jar of preservation fluid. The excuse must have been good enough for Dakshina, who fiddled with some nearby stacks of storage boxes so that it didn't seem like she was looking directly at Enoch, except for the fact that she was being terribly obvious about it. The redheaded boy made quick work of cleaning the brushes he had been using by rinsing them thoroughly in a jar of alcohol. This went unnoticed by Enoch, who didn't seem to be paying any attention to those in the room who were male, which was a quality he still possessed even after supposedly growing out of his teenage years. Bookman had truly believed it to be a hormonal stage of development, but apparently, he had been mistaken.

"Miss Dakshina," Enoch said, leaning his elbow on a sturdy cart near where the Indian woman was pretending to work, "might I implore you to join me in East Wing this afternoon? Manas and Ganesa have been working on that transmutation circle for ages now and haven't come out of their office at all. I've been so lonely!" Bookman saw Lavi halt in his packing to make a face that could have been classified somewhere between disgusted and incredulous. Bookman himself was leaning towards hilarious.

"You know I can't, Enoch. I have to finish all these before I can even think about doing anything else," Dakshina replied politely, still a bit flushed at their close proximity, "but I do thank you kindly for the invitation." Enoch's expression fell, much like a child who has their favorite toy taken away from them for being naughty. In response to this, Dakshina's eyebrows furrowed apologetically, but she was firm in her previous response and Enoch eventually straightened up. He had composed himself, it seemed, as he ran his fingers back through his hair before continuing.

"Yes, yes. I understand and you're right. But the moment you finish, _bao bei_, I'm going to whisk you away from this dark tower so that we can ride off into the sunset of happiness and prospective joy! How does that sound, darling?" Enoch asked, flashing a dashing smile that would put the most dazzling of the court aristocrats in France to shame. Dakshina herself darkened in color, appearing to be embarrassedly pleased to have someone fawn over her. It continued on for several moments, where Bookman and Lavi stood awkwardly off to the side. Bookman looked at the boy, who shrugged and picked at the dried bits of sealant solution under his fingernails rather than watch the couple before them.

"Well, now that everything is all settled, I'll be taking my leave!" Enoch said cheerfully as he turned for the exit. Bookman caught his eye and his smiled widened even more. "And Bookman, please come by as well! I'd love to catch up." Bookman accepted with a simple nod, watching as Enoch pranced out of the room. He was a man in love, that was for sure, and Bookman looked at Dakshina: the source of the illness. She noticed his stare and hastily turned away. Near to him, Lavi looked as if he knew the entire thing, but wish he didn't possess that knowledge.

"So I see Enoch is the same as when I left," Bookman said. Enoch had always been a little bit more than eccentric. Bookman considered him to be one of those cases of sheer brilliancy that teetered dangerously on the edge of insanity. Although sometimes (most of the time, in truth) not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to certain things, Enoch possessed a fantastic mind. It was his intelligence that was helping to pave the way for many of the progressive research that had been conducted in the East Wing for the past seven years or so. In addition to this lunacy, Enoch now had to contend with lovesickness. It wasn't so terribly cute that it ceased to be annoying. In fact, Bookman found it to be rather irritating, although he could see that there was some amusement factor in the situation, so he would hold his tongue and enjoy it for the time being.

"Enoch will be Enoch," Dakshina replied in an offhand manner, organizing a few of the drying documents into their new storage containers.

"This is a very true statement," Bookman agreed.

"Now that he's gone, do I still have to leave?" Lavi asked, tilting his head slightly in question. Dakshina put down her work and walked to him, turning him around on the spot before giving him a nudge towards the door. It was a rather motherly gesture that Bookman hadn't expected to see from the Indian woman. Things had certainly changed in five years, hadn't they?

"Yes, you do. Go on and do a little studying," Dakshina said, giving him an affectionate pat on the head. Lavi nodded obediently and went for the door, his footsteps not far from the room before they halted.

"What are _you_ doing here?" asked a voice from the hall. Dakshina did not hear this question voiced with hostility. Instead, she was consumed with her own organizational work without pausing. Bookman, with nothing but idle time and abundant energy, curiously walked out to see what was occurring in the corridor. Lavi was on the far side, facing the preservation room door, his eye secondarily flicking upwards to look at Bookman before returning to what was before him. There stood a young girl with her back to Bookman, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun, much like Dakshina's and she wore the navy robes of the Clan's student population.

"Hey, are you deaf? I asked you a question," said the girl in an angry tone.

"What is that supposed to mean? I can be wherever I want. So," Lavi paused, looking up at Bookman again with a guarded expression, as if he wasn't sure what he could get away with saying in the presence of an adult, "so_ guan ni ziji de shi_, Yi Ming." The girl, Yi Ming, huffed at the suggestion for her to mind her own business, continuing her tirade.

"_I_ am Miss Dakshina's apprentice," said Yi Min. "_I_ was chosen long before you arrived and I've worked too hard to get where I am for you to come along and take what is rightfully mine." Bookman could not believe the amount of venom in such a young girl's voice, but Lavi did not seem fazed by her obvious hatred of him. In fact, he looked rather bored, as if he received this sort of treatment on a daily basis.

"I'm not taking anything from you. I've told you that before. And why would I want to be Master of the Archives anyways?" Lavi answered calmly, his tone reasonable, expression indecipherable.

"Maybe because you know that you'll never be able to amount to anything. You're just—"

"That will be enough, Yi Min." Dakshina's voice cut through the air like a knife, piercing Yi Min's words in her throat so that they were never spoken aloud. Bookman did not know what she had been about to say, but judging from Dakshina's livid face, it wasn't going to be kind.

"I'm sorry, teacher," Yi Min replied, bowing her head in apology for her actions. Dakshina did not give her permission to rise from her stance and Lavi did not wait for her to do so. Without a word, he continued on his way, hands folded under the too-long, worn sleeves of his Clan _haori_. Once he was out of sight, Dakshina allowed Yi Min to rise, but did not say any words of admonishment to her. Bookman had to wonder what the absence of punishment meant.

"My apprentice, Yi Min," Dakshina said, not sounding pleased. Yi Min kept her eyes downcast and bowed respectfully.

"It is a pleasure, Honorable Bookman," she said, her voice taking upon the epitome of politeness. There was no sign of the poisoned snake venom from before that had been so directly aimed at that young child. Bookman did not deign himself to reply to her, too busy wondering at what the situation had presented as an interesting question: if Yi Min was Dakshina's apprentice, then what was Lavi to her? If there was something Bookman enjoyed, it was a puzzle.

Riddles were always enjoyable to figure out.

"We're continuing from yesterday," Dakshina informed her apprentice, steering her over to the workbench when Bookman had no words for her. She still sounded angry and Yi Min immediately hurried to work, attacking her chore with vigor to prove that she was still worthy of her position.

"Your apprentice," Bookman said to Dakshina, as they stepped out of the strong-smelling room. Even from the hallway, Bookman saw Yi Min stiffen as she was mentioned, almost as if a physical blow had been sent her way.

"Yes," Dakshina replied.

"And the other one?" Bookman asked. Dakshina turned her face away, her eyes focused on something that was far away.

"It's a long story," she answered after a moment of consideration. Bookman noticed that Yi Min was watching them from underneath her long bangs. She was trying not to look obvious about it, but Bookman found that when people were trying to do this, that was when they were being the most obvious.

"And it's going to be a long day," Bookman said. In his own way, that was as much interest as he was going to show, as he would not wish to appear more than curious about the situation by asking about it directly.

"Let's go have some tea," Dakshina suggested, in a similar tone. In her own way, that was as much willingness she was going to show to him. It would be a difficult time getting anything out of her, Bookman knew, but he was resolved to find out exactly what it was Dakshina was hiding.

"Finish up through this stack," Dakshina said to Yi Min, when she returned to the room. With her left hand, she indicated a decent sized stack of parchment. "After they're dry, store them away. Then get started on those there." The nine carts were waiting with their towering mountains of seemingly never-ending work. Yi Min looked overwhelmed and a little angry, but remained silent and accepted her punishment.

Dakshina was definitely not one to anger.

**pqpq**

The tea Dakshina had mentioned earlier was Jasmine, a flavor that Bookman hadn't tasted since his last return trip to Nepal. It was warm between his wrinkled hands, calming to the mind and senses when consumed. Perhaps Dakshina chose the tea for that very reason, as she appeared troubled and deep in thought. The kettle hissed on its hot plate like the sigh that escaped her lips ten minutes after they had sat down.

"I killed that boy," Dakshina said softly aloud to the room. They were in a small annex near the library that served as a small break room, lounge, storage area, and probably a whole number of other things judging from the random items held within. But with the two of them there kneeling on cushions before a low table drinking tea and talking about the death of a boy, the setting seemed irrelevant.

"He seems quite alive to me," Bookman replied. He knew that Dakshina wouldn't divulge anything unless prompted, or antagonized. But she didn't say anything as she ran her long fingertip along the rim of her teacup. Her chocolate eyes stared into the steaming liquid like it held the answer to a question she couldn't solve

.

"I took everything from him, Bookman. I truly did kill him," Dakshina repeated.

"How so?" Bookman asked, taking a sip of tea. He wasn't quite sure what Dakshina was talking about and so, he patiently waited for her to form the words in her mind, force the tongue to move in the correct motions to make the sounds.

"I just couldn't leave him be...I should have…just let him die there," Dakshina said in a roundabout manner. Her eyes did not meet his.

"Then you really would have killed him," Bookman pointed out.

"Maybe that would have been better," she said. A silence settled over them like a blanket. Somewhere, a clock was ticking the moments away slowly. The tea kettle gave another shuddering sort of hiss next to them.

"Did you hear about those riots in Syangboche?" she asked suddenly; Bookman nodded. It had started over a year ago, when the people of Syangboche had been protesting control from the new Tibetan government. They feared for their individual and property rights, which were threatened to be ignored and consolidated. In protest, the riots began. They began in Syangboche and then in nearby cities of Lukla and Phaplu. Smaller hamlets and villages within the region became involved as well using primitive, yet violent, means to keep their freedoms. It had been so bloody a rebellion against the government that newspapers in as far away places as Europe had run articles concerning the events.

"The riots were quieted in these past few months, I heard," Bookman said, as he had kept up with the information while traveling.

"They were. However, when I went there almost a half a year ago, the riots were in full swing. I had business in Syangboche and Abel was sent to accompany me, but he fell sick a few miles from headquarters, so I was forced to continue on without him," Dakshina began. Bookman nodded as incentive for her to continue, in the back of his mind wondering why on earth they had sent Abel—the Keeper of the Archives in South—to go with Dakshina on such a dangerous excursion. He had always been in ill health, so it wasn't any surprise that he had become sick during the journey. However, for Dakshina to go alone into such war-torn territory with no escort…Bookman's curiosity was piqued.

"I met him just outside of Syangboche. Lavi, I mean. It was an accident, really. Just a kid I bumped into in the bazaar. I asked him for directions," Dakshina explained, her sentences short and unrefined. The entire thing was truly upsetting for her, whatever had transpired.

"And?" Bookman prompted. Dakshina ran her hands over her face in a tired, defeated gesture. She looked older than Bookman had ever seen her. When her eyes met his, he could only see a deep well of despair. What had happened on that journey beyond Clan walls that had wounded her so?

"I left." It was said with the softest exhale. Her eyes dropped to the table, fingers falling and curling in on themselves, twisting and turning beside her teacup. Bookman could not understand her frustration and was forced to wait patiently for her to continue. "When I arrived in Syangboche the next day…it was...terrible..." Her words were forced, thick with emotion. Her expression kept itself downcast; her body slumped as if she had failed in the eyes of the Clan for being unable to keep her composure. But Dakshina was not a Bookman: she was not required to be stoic when facing such a scene or relating upon her experiences. She took to that pain quietly, fingering the crest on her _sari_.

"I don't…know how you do it," she said, putting her head into her hands. "How can you see wars…the outcome of wars…all the time? How can you look at it…write about it…all that bloodshed and unnecessary death. That…_sadness_…how can you so easily record something so terrible and not…?"

"It is my duty to do so, Dakshina," Bookman said, setting his teacup down on the table before him. He turned the porcelain in place as he regarded the woman across from him.

"'There is no room for bias,'" she recited, somewhat bitterly.

"'Emotion is that which fuels partiality,'" Bookman added, to better drive that point home. Dakshina nodded in understanding. The Bookmen were those who had to look at the battlefield without cringing, without wanting to run away. They were the ones who observed the precursors, the momentous clash between two opposing forces, and then finally the bloody aftermath. There was only misery and despair in that place: things that could not been unseen.

Those were the things that a Bookman made his livelihood.

"I didn't know that the riots had gotten as bad as they did," Dakshina continued, pouring some more tea into her cup. Her hand shook, spilling some of the hot liquid onto the table, "but they had, perhaps even worse than I could have imagined. When the government encountered opposition, they just…they opened fire. There were corpses in the streets…women…children….such monstrous things had been done to them…"

"And what happened after that?" Bookman asked, attempting to steer Dakshina away from the images that had certainly haunted her nightmares afterwards.

"I spoke to a few people in the surrounding area, but they were angry. Even the papermaker I had gone to meet up with—to talk with him about a new invention he had created to make stronger parchment paper—wouldn't speak with me. They feared outsiders even more than they feared the government. After that riot that had turned into a massacre, I think they would have rather dealt with an enemy they knew rather than a new one that they didn't," Dakshina said, wiping up the mess on the table with her handkerchief. "Anyway, I found lodgings on the eastern side in a small inn. I met a little boy there of about ten or eleven. He was…well, he was a kind boy…" She smiled a little, but it was lined with a deep sadness. Her hands dropped into her lap where Bookman could not see them, but he could hear them twisting and turning in the fabric of her _sari_.

"His name was Rohan," she said fondly. "Both of his parents had been killed in the recent government retaliation to the rebellions and his aunt, who ran the inn, was in charge of his care." She stopped, took a breath, and then continued: "Talking to him…he told me he had been there the day they died; the day they had been killed. Because of the lack of information in the area regarding the riots, I interviewed him for the sake of the records. He was my only source and he knew so very much for such a young boy. I was so proud of him, that he could speak about such a terrible event. But he did it for me and when he smiled…" Dakshina stopped again. Bookman saw that her eyes had turned rather wet, but she did not cry. "I made him relive all of that and he still smiled. And I feel…so terrible for it because…that day was the last thing we spoke about before he died."

Bookman heard her hands clench and make fists in her lap. She looked anguished but would not cry, even though she was allowed to. On some level, Bookman truly admired her for her strength.

"After…that afternoon, when he went into town…it was the day of the final rebellion before the government was able to take control. It was the most violent take over of the entire war, what has been written down as the Blood Rebellion. Needless to say…he didn't return home."

Silence crept over them, suffocating.

"I saw his body," she whispered. "It was so small."

If Bookman would have been someone other than himself, he might have reached forward to touch her hand in comfort. But he did not.

"I went back to that small town outside of Syangboche," Dakshina continued, voice strained, attempting to continue. "The riots had reached there as well. The bazaar that had been so busy when I first arrived was decimated. Buildings were in ruins, on fire. Even though it was snowing, everything was charred and black. I remember thinking that perhaps the snow would have been beautiful, if not for it falling upon the bodies…" Dakshina looked off to the side, straightening her collar as she cleared her throat. "I found Lavi there. It was an accident…again."

She bit her lip.

"_Wo de tian, a_… He was so small...he looked just like..." Dakshina's hands fell from her collar, spreading out to smooth over the front of her dress. She shook her head, as if berating herself silently for wanting to cry. Judging from her actions, Bookman began to think he knew where her story was going. "He was just…just lying there in an alley. I almost didn't see him, but I remembered that red hair. It's hard to forget…" She looked up at him and met his eyes. Bookman watched without blinking as a tear ran down her face. It was the only one she allowed, brushing the others away from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

"He nearly broke my heart when he looked up at me and asked…if I would hold his hand because he was going to die and he was a little scared," she said, her lips twitching to smile bitterly, but unable to quite do so properly. "I should have…I should have shown him that one kindness and held his hand while he died. But I…"

"But you did not," Bookman said for her. He did his best to not make it sound accusatory, but that was the tone it took despite his best intentions.

"I could not," she replied, shaking her head as her fingers curled around her teacup. "I left Syangboche with him and found lodgings in a safe village several miles from where Abel was recovering. I wasn't sure what to do about the entire situation and I didn't know what Abel would think about my actions, so I remained there for the week and treated the Lavi's wounds."

"He was injured then," Bookman said.

"He had been hurt in one of the rebellions, I presume, and he was very weak. I didn't think he was going to make it, but he's a strong soul," Dakshina continued, pausing to smile fondly, yet sadly. "What happened to that child…that pain is something a child should never have to experience." The way Dakshina said the phrase made Bookman wonder exactly what the extent of the boy's wounds were, but he refrained from asking. Instead, he inquired:

"I take it that is the reason for his appearance," Bookman replied, referring to the black patch the boy wore habitually over his right eye. Dakshina glanced at him with a strange, awkward jerk of her head. For a moment, Bookman believed her to be almost frightened.

"No," she said, voice just barely above a whisper. "That is something else entirely."

Bookman quieted, wondering what the woman across from him meant by those words. She did not elaborate, but that furrow of fear still lingered tight in her brow, only deepening when she breathed out a trembling sigh.

"I killed him."

Her hard words seemed to echo ten times over in the quiet space. It then made perfect sense to Bookman, whose initial notions he now knew to be correct.

"You made him into that boy," Bookman said. Dakshina nodded, her gesture heavy with regret.

"I had to…" she whispered, "I couldn't leave him there…and it was the only way I could think of to…"

"You lied to the Clan," Bookman replied. Her eyes, shining with unshed tears, met his with a small flash of anger.

"He is just a boy, Bookman. To leave him there would have been leaving him to die," she insisted.

"And you said yourself that you should have let him die in the first place," Bookman said.

"I couldn't…I couldn't," Dakshina said, sounding close to weeping. "I couldn't leave him there after that…not when he had no place to go and it was so cold outside. On top of that, when I heard that men from the underground were taking the orphans of the tragedies and selling them into slavery…I couldn't just turn a blind eye to that…"

"So you brought him here," Bookman said.

"I told him…I told him everything about Rohan," she murmured. "I knew that if he took on the persona of Rohan, he could be valuable to the Clan. By taking on this role, he would become a primary source and thereby permitted to remain on the grounds under the Protective Acts the Clan instituted in order to provide sanctuary to victims of historical atrocities."

"Clever of you," Bookman replied. Dakshina looked anything but pleased.

"I made him become that boy. I take no pride in that," she said. "I forced him into this situation without asking anything about him. I didn't ask who he was or where he came from, even how he got there. I didn't ask what he experienced or how he felt about any of it…I didn't even ask his name."

"And now the both of you are here."

"It gets worse."

She breathed in deeply.

"In the presence of all four Shepherds and the Chancellor himself, Lavi entered into the Clan by signing over his name—Rohan's name—in order to receive his alias. I chose Lavi. It's a strong name, you know, with the image of a fierce and strong lion attached to it. To be honest, I'm not sure if I chose that name thinking about him or Rohan…" Dakshina admitted, before continuing quietly, "but…there was fine print. There always is, isn't there?" She chuckled dryly, bitterly. "Due to his age, his unknown lineage, the fact that he could barely read, let alone hold a quill…these factors finalized the decision that Lavi should be denied Furtherance."

Bookman knew what the sentence meant and was rather surprised at it. It was very rare that the Clan would go to such lengths; so rare that Bookman only could recall two or three instances where outsiders were brought in and given the status. Under the established law, denied Furtherance declared that the person in question would be unable to hold a title within the Clan. The restrictions that came with it were also rather cruel, as it prevented a person from being enrolled within any educational system within the Clan. Bookman could not imagine a harsher sentence than being denied knowledge itself when one wanted to learn.

"And…to make matters worse…eh was also pronounced Bound," Dakshina said, her eyes averted. Bookman felt his eyes widen slightly at this bit of information. The status was even rarer than being denied Furtherance. It was a strict ruling that ensured the person Bound would be unable to leave Clan headquarters. It was a guarantee that the person would never see the outside world again.

It was a lifetime sentence.

"I killed him," Dakshina repeated, breathing in deeply. "I thought bringing him here would be the right choice; that I could save him from the pain outside. But…I took away what little that he had and put him in this place…" She brought her hands above the table where they twisted and turned again around her teacup. "He'll never be able to gain anything, or go anywhere, or do anything that he wants to do. That's why…that's why I should have let him die that day. At least it would have been…on his own terms…" She fell quiet and refused to look at him.

"A status can always be revoked," Bookman offered. He knew that in the few cases of denied Furtherance within the Clan, there had always been the option to appeal the decision. All four Shepherds would have to agree upon the change and then the sentence would have the ability to be reversed. Although the Bound status would be a bit more difficult, at least there would be a way to ensure that the child would not be denied an education. However, it would take an amazing amount of persuasion, as the Shepherds never agreed on anything.

"Enoch and I spoke about it once," Dakshina admitted, dabbing at her eyes. "He said that Lavi would have to go through a series of tests and interviews to prove that he was interested in pursing studies. And even from there, his IQ would have to match or even better the top students here…"

"With rigorous study, a determined mind can achieve anything," Bookman replied

"He has been denied Furtherance, which means that he is unable to attend classes here. And you know…there is only so much you can learn from books without instruction," Dakshina said, before continuing in an almost conspiratorial whisper: "But I taught him a little, even though I'm not supposed to. When he asked me to teach him how to read and write, I couldn't deny him that. So, I did and he picked it up quite fast. From there, he went on to language and some mathematics and then before I knew it, we were holding on conversations in Italian, Spanish, even English. I felt badly when he asked me about things that even exceeded my own knowledge, such as mechanical physics and calculus. Truly, he is such a bright boy…"

She was very proud, that was for certain, but Bookman could see that something had shifted in her: her previous state during her tale had dissipated into something else entirely. Dakshina started that process women employ when they are attempting to broach a subject they know they, and the other person, would not agree upon: she began straightening things within arms reach of her upon the table, going so far as to even out each stalk on the _tatami_ placemat before them. Bookman knew the actions well and narrowed his eyes at the woman across from him suspiciously, waiting.

"Bookman," she began.

"No," he answered, before she even started.

"I didn't even say anything yet," Dakshina pointed out, looking at him with her lips pursed in a frown.

"It doesn't matter. The answer is no," Bookman replied.

Dakshina hung her head and spoke the next few words carefully and softly, as if treading upon a minefield.

"If the Bookman were to speak for him—"

"No."

"—then maybe—"

"No."

"—Lavi could—"

"No."

She stopped and sighed, looking up at him with her big, brown eyes. Bookman could tell that Dakshina was attempting to guilt him into making this decision, but the old man was determined to not yield. It did not matter to him what happened to the boy and he did not find that it was any of his business to speak on behalf of a child to whom he had no connection. It violated almost every principle he had built his entire persona upon and he would not transgress that for anyone.

"Please?" she asked.

"Absolutely not," Bookman replied.

"And why not?"

"Because I said no. Therefore, there remains no room for argument."

"I see," Dakshina said. Her voice had lost all pleading and softness. It left her eyes as well, turning into something harder and angrier. It was the look of an offended tigress when it concerned her cub. And Bookman had to admit, that in everything he had seen throughout his years on earth, Dakshina was the most frightening when she was enraged.

Hell definitely had nothing on that woman.

This was definitely the reason why, when he left Dakshina's company, Bookman found himself searching for a small, one-eyed, redheaded boy named Lavi.

**pqpq**

Revised 11/8/2009

Dhampir72


	4. The Contract

**Chapter 4: The Contract**

"Dakshina made you come, didn't she?"

The voice came from atop one of the large bookcases in East Library. Above him, a redheaded boy with an eye patch looked down at him with an almost knowing expression. Bookman, who had indeed been casually searching for him, attempted to remain innocent.

"And why would you assume that?" Bookman asked. Lavi turned his gaze back toward the shelf he was level with, pulling out a book to leaf through it while balancing precariously on the top rung of the ladder.

"Why else would you be here?" he inquired.

"Perhaps I wanted a book," Bookman replied. Lavi did not even dignify him with a glance as he placed his book back on the shelf and took another.

"With all do respect, I may be young, but I am not _yu ben de_," Lavi said. Bookman felt the corner of his lip quirk upward in a smile, but he stopped it prematurely, watching silently as the redhead replaced the volume in his hands in exchange for another.

"So what did we talk about, then?" Lavi asked in a nonchalant manner.

"Your current status that declares you Bound and denied Furtherance," Bookman replied, "and other topics of similar nature."

"Should I say I cried at the unfairness of it all? Perhaps arguing with indignation at the unjustness of my situation?" Lavi asked, glancing down at him briefly before turning his attention back to the book in his hands. "Perhaps it will be more believable that way."

"If you're into such drama," Bookman answered, not believing that the boy above him would act in such a manner. It appeared that Dakshina had done a good job training him. He was serious and rather level headed, not seemingly influenced or controlled by his emotions. It was impressive for someone of his young age.

"Was there anything else?" Lavi asked, setting his book aside before reaching for another.

"Not at all, but timing is essential. After all, there is no way that we could have had such an in-depth conversation in under the span of five minutes," Bookman said.

"True, but will she really know…?" he asked, his voice low enough that Bookman presumed him to be speaking mostly to himself. Without bothering to respond, the old man sat down at the nearest desk. It was the same one he had declared to be his own all those years ago, beside the wide window in East. By his elbow, there rested a glowing lantern and a small stack of books with titles like: _Astronomia_, _Astrum Libri_, _Rectro ut Sidus quod Plagiarius_, and _Skywatching_. Bookman picked up _Rectro ut Sidus quod Plagiarius_, as he remembered reading the English version—_The Guide to Constellations and Heavenly Bodies_—some time during his travels in Europe. It was fascinating to see it in its original Latin, but it contained rather advanced vocabulary and grammatical patterns that Bookman idly wondered if Lavi would be able to understand.

"Astronomy?" Bookman inquired aloud, mostly out of lack of conversation than actual curiosity. On the highest shelf, Bookman heard Lavi snap one of the tomes shut before reshelving it. He watched as the redhead made his way carefully down the creaking ladder, three more books beneath his arm.

"What of it?" Lavi asked. Bookman noticed that he had to hop down from the second rung, as the one on the very bottom was splintered and broken. He landed expertly and unfazed, shifting the books beneath his arm as he neared the table. His gaze was cautious as he set his new finds down beside his other books and then seated himself opposite Bookman.

"It must be hard to see anything from inside," Bookman observed, peering at the boy over the top of the book in his hands. Lavi's gaze was out the window, observing the twilit evening with an expression of near-yearning. The window was of decent size, but Bookman knew that it would not provide even a decent view for a stargazer, which accounted for that wistful look. Lavi seemed to realize this and turned his face from the window, scratching at the band of the eye patch that stretched over his nose in irritation.

"It is," Lavi said, looking at him fully. Up close, Bookman could see that his single eye was a peculiar shade of emerald that was very rare in their region. Before he could ponder the boy's unknown lineage, Lavi's gaze had flickered downward to look at the books on the table.

"I know you probably don't care, because I wouldn't if I was you, but before I came here, I used to look at them all the time," Lavi began quietly. "I had no idea what they were then, but I always liked looking at them. Now, I know what they are: how they're formed, what their names are, and even when they appear in the sky…but no matter how much I want to look at them, I can barely see anything from in here…" Lavi leaned over in his chair and pulled his bag on top of the table. From it, he removed something that was wrapped tightly in a cream handkerchief. Unwrapped, Bookman saw that the object in question was a small, brass telescope. The side had a major dent in it, as if someone had taken it and beaten it against the edge of a table. The lens was cracked and broken.

"To make matters worse, the other day, someone broke my telescope and now I can't see anything at all," Lavi said, wrapping it up with practiced care. "I was going to ask Manas and Ganesa in the science wing to fix it for me, but they've been busy with all their alchemy research…And I can't ask Enoch either, because he was really nice and gave it to me. I don't want him to know that it's broken." Once the telescope was completely swathed in the fabric, Lavi placed it back into his bag and stood up.

"And would you believe it? In this entire place, with all these libraries and annexes," Lavi began, stopping half-way through his sentence to pull the ladder along the shelves to the next section, "there isn't a single book on how to fix a telescope?" He climbed up the steps about halfway before he began searching for specific volumes on the shelves once again. It fell quiet again, Bookman passing the time by staring out the window until the oranges and reds had disappeared behind white-capped mountains, giving way to indigo. When the sky darkened, the stars would come out. Bookman could picture them perfectly in his mind, twinkling against the vastness. Out of everything in the world, Bookman believed they were the most beautiful: the only thing that man could not tarnish or destroy.

It was unfair to keep the child from experiencing that.

"Would you like to see?" Bookman asked, before he could stop himself from voicing his thoughts aloud. He had no idea what possessed him to say those words. It would almost be considered kind, which was completely out of character for him. But there was something about the boy that intrigued him and nothing interested Bookman more than a puzzle.

"See what?" Lavi asked, his back still to Bookman.

"The stars," Bookman replied. The redhead's hand stilled over a large tome and Lavi instead turned on the middle rung to face him. He looked skeptical and a little suspicious.

"Well of course," Lavi answered, going back to the volume that had captured his interest. He pulled it down off the shelf, but didn't open it. Instead, he climbed back down and came over to the desk to stand across from Bookman. "I tried to get out once, you know. I was caught by the West Shepherd and he wailed on me until I couldn't move anymore." Lavi set the book down, a little forcefully on top of the pile. "I'm not willing to try that again. I learn quickly." As he returned to the shelves, Bookman recalled the West Shepherd's harsh punishments with a mental cringe. Rong was nothing short of cruel when it came to discipline and Bookman knew that he would not hold back his strength, even if it was inflicted upon a child.

"What if I were to tell you that there was a way around all of these stipulations?" Bookman inquired.

"I would say that it was too good to be true," was the answer.

"But would you do it?"

"Perhaps.

"Perhaps."

"It depends on what it would entail," Lavi said. Bookman could tell that he was trying not to look too interested, as obvious from the way that the boy kept his back to him. However, he wasn't looking through books as he had been before, which allowed the old man to know that he was listening. He was cautious, smart, and quite articulate for such a young child. If Bookman had known himself better, he might have actually considered himself impressed.

"An essay," Bookman said, before amending with: "Actually, three essays."

"And that's all?" Lavi asked, looking over his shoulder at Bookman, as if wondering if it was some elaborate joke being played upon him by a higher power.

"That's all," Bookman answered, watching as that gaze shifted from him to the window. He could almost see in the dim light how that single eye strained to see beyond the limited view it provided: to someplace in the far-off distance beneath an indigo sky of freedom. The boy then looked back at Bookman with an expression of determination.

"You have yourself a deal."

**pqpq**

The three essay prompts Bookman left with Lavi were the same three he had supplied in his letters to the four Shepherds. He had not made the prompts any easier in consideration of the boy's age. After all, Bookman himself was not quite clear on why he had promised the child such a reward for completing them. Had it been pity towards Lavi's situation, or was he merely following the wishes of Dakshina, whom he regarded with some degree of fondness? Bookman was unsure, but he did have to admit that there was something peculiar about the boy and he was interested to see how a younger child would answer those thought provoking questions.

The prompts were the same as when he had been a young man, striving for the position of apprentice Bookman. In short, they were to encompass the three attitudes that Bookmen had to consider in the life as an observant historian: the impact of humans within the world, the presence or absence of a higher power in the realm of human existence, and then finally the inescapable cycle of pain and suffering.

By the late evening, Bookman had received all three essay bundles from a few of the candidates. He was a bit distressed to find that most of them had been composed with too much _le se_ in order to meet the measly length requirement of sixteen inches each. Only two stood out among the pile. There was the provocative essay written by one of the North Shepherd's candidates acknowledging the existence, but neutrality of a being known as "God". The other was an intelligent essay composed by one of Enoch's candidates, which focused on the concepts of progressive sciences and how the new technology affected the world.

Setting those two aside in a pile to keep, Bookman rifled through the remaining essays with dissatisfaction. None of them were truly to his standards, so he put those into a stack and placed them beneath the table. Perhaps at the end of the week, when he received the remaining essays, Bookman would look at them again, but he truly doubted it. However, he could not completely rule them out, especially if the responses by the other candidates were any worse than the ones he held in his possession.

Bookman felt an exasperated sigh leave him as he shrugged on his heavy _haori_, stood and went to the patio door. Pulling back the screen, Bookman stepped out onto the veranda and lit a cigarette. To him, the exercise of finding an apprentice seemed pointless when the youth was not up to par with his standards. He inhaled, breathing in tobacco and the cold air. When he exhaled, it was a mixture of breath and smoke that twisted itself in patterns beneath a myriad of stars. Above him, the moon was a bright chunk in the sky, illuminating the snow-covered peaks down below. Truly, it was a breathtaking sight. Even a Bookman could appreciate the natural world, especially when it was quiet and still.

That boy came to mind again.

Bookman's memory could conjure the image again and again: Lavi's wistful look to a world beyond the window. He sought something outside the cage where he lived in shackles. But despite his best efforts, there was nothing but darkness for him. Bookman knew that the boy had no future. He would live for the rest of his life with condemned status and he would die without seeing the outside of the mountain. This place was his coffin. The sad thing was that Lavi knew; the old man had seen the weight of that knowledge in his only eye. And even sadder was that Bookman knew that Lavi understood there was nothing he could do about it. Bookman paused on his inhale, the tobacco suddenly tasting too bitter. He threw the cigarette out into the night, watching as the orange end burned brightly before disappearing into the darkness.

He watched it fade away, much like Lavi could only watch his hopes and dreams fade away through the cracked lens of a broken telescope.

**pqpq**

Revised 11/9/2009

Dhampir72


	5. East Wing

**Chapter 5: East Wing**

Throughout the course of the next week, Bookman stationed himself in East Library at the desk by the window. While awaiting the return of his essay prompts from the prospective candidates, Bookman worked on the financial aspects of his past five years traveling by grouping receipts and log records concerning the amount of money he spent. With those figures, Bookman would be able to propose his budget for the next part of his journey, adding in the expenses of traveling with a second person. It was difficult to say exactly how much would be needed, as prices fluctuated depending on the economies of separate countries throughout the Eurasian continent. Not to mention he had no idea how much the cost would actually be of an additional person tagging along.

During this time, Bookman was taken from his work occasionally at the arrival of students producing their final essays. They came in varying degrees of nervousness and embarrassment, speaking softly with their faces downturned in respect as they handed their parchment to him. Bookman knew that their attitudes were due to his title within the Clan, as it established him as a near celebrity; someone who was famous in the sense that his knowledge and intelligence was far greater than anyone else. It pleased Bookman that he held this status, as it elevated him a position of that was even above the Chancellor, who only held political authority over those within their Clan.

Setting his own personal achievements aside, Bookman finished his calculations and other responsibilities while on site before reading through the new additions. The essays were interesting, but very few grasped the intent and purpose of the exercise. Some, he laid aside to consider, while the others he did not touch again. Those that he found acceptable were grouped in a pile and read again to determine if they were of substantial value. From these, he was able to narrow the list down to two boys from Enoch's list, one from both the North Shepherd and the West Shepherd's candidate, and to make it a competing five in total, he also selected a boy from the South Shepherd's recommendations. However, he still had three boys left from the pool who had not yet turned in their applications, and so Bookman did not finalize his list in allowance for their entries as well.

It was mid-week, sometime in the late afternoon, when Bookman heard a commotion outside East Library. In the hall, there was a din of voices that was too distorted to properly make out exact words. All Bookman could tell was that they were hostile, accompanied by scuffling, the sound of a multitude of things being dropped, and then an uproar of laughter.

With the determination to scare the wits out of whomever had caused the disruption, Bookman rose from his desk and walked with a gait of practiced patience towards the door. He did not make his presence known, as he was an observer by nature, and instead watched without interfering in the proceedings. Assessing the situation, Bookman realized that, out of the group, he recognized two of the boys, as they had been by earlier in the week to personally drop off their essays. He did not recall their names, as Bookman had not bothered to memorize them needlessly, but he knew that they were much older than the others in the group. It was interesting to see how different situations could change a person, as the older boys had been much more polite in Bookman's presence. Before him, he saw their true nature: jeering, cruel _instigators_. Intelligent or not, that was one thing that a Bookman could _not_ be.

"Where are you going there?" asked one of them. The group fluctuated briefly, allowing Bookman a glimpse of red hair within the center of the semi-circle that had been created. He wondered if it was the boy with the eye patch that was the target of such harassment.

"To the library," was the answer, confirming Bookman's thoughts. It was the same calm and level voice that Lavi had used with him the night they spoke in the library. Even surrounded by enemies, Lavi did not seem hostile. Instead, Bookman could hear the stoic control he displayed; it was so easily put forth that the old man pondered if the reaction was habitual. Did the happenings before him transpire more often than not? "Let me pass."

"To the library, he says?" said the first boy with a mocking sneer. "Let him pass, he asks? Well, what if I deny you on grounds that you're nothing but a _liu kou shui de biao-zi he hou-zi de ben er-zi_ who doesn't deserve to wear that crest?" Lavi did not answer, even at such an insult. From where Bookman stood, he could see no flicker of corresponding emotion in the boy's face, almost like he had completely shut down and moved away from himself to not feel pain or hurt.

"So get out of here!" said one of the younger boys, shoving Lavi roughly in the shoulder. He stumbled backwards and was pushed forwards by the members behind him.

"Good-for-nothing stray!" they shouted.

"_Gou shi_!" jeered those in front of him. Lavi did not react to the insults and swears, straightening his threadbare robes from their rumpled state. Continuing to ignore them, the redhead kneeled down onto the ground. Between the legs of the surrounding group, Bookman could see a multitude of volumes on the floor, which must have been the noise he had heard prior to coming to investigate the source of the interruption. Lavi piled the books carefully on top of one another with meticulous care, even when the boys began to throw crumbled pieces of paper and broken quills at him. Bookman did not step in to stop their cruelty.

"If you're all through, let me pass," Lavi said again. He sounded unfazed by their actions and his expression matched, remaining that way, even when one of the boys rounded on him to grab Lavi by the front of his robes. It was the second boy that Bookman recognized, so tall that when he gripped at Lavi, he lifted the smaller boy off the ground. His feet dangled several inches above the floor as he was shaken roughly.

"What are you going to do if I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request?" he asked mockingly. The redhead looked up at him, meeting his eyes without flinching and with a straight face, addressed him.

"I'll fight you."

"Fight _me_? _You_?" asked the boy with a smirk. "Go on and give it a go then!" He dropped Lavi from his grip; the smaller boy landed on both feet with ease and did not stumble in a disconcerted manner as Bookman had presumed. As the older boy stepped back and brought up his fists, the group gave them more room by spreading out. No one had noticed Bookman, standing there by the main door to the library, and no other instructors were around to dissipate the fight. Although he should not have experienced it, Bookman felt a twinge of anxiety for the small boy, who looked even tinier in comparison to his opponent. To watch any child suffer at the hands of another was something that even Bookman could not take so easily in stride. But he watched without looking away as the older boy moved in with a swing of one fist, bringing up his opposite leg to finalize the blow. But it missed, as Lavi had dodged it effectively with a duck and shoulder roll. There were murmurs of dissatisfaction among the group.

"Did you know that there are over three hundred pressure points in the body? Of those, thirty can be used most effectively in combat situations. Of those, half can be fatal if enough pressure and force is applied. As of know, I know seventy-four points, five of which _are_ fatal. Would you like to stand aside now and let me pass? Or would rather see if this _liu kou shui de biao-zi he hou-zi de ben er-zi_ can take you on?" Lavi asked. He held out his hands in a near-perfect stance to perform such maneuvers, causing his opponent to turn slightly pale. However, he did not back down and lunged at the redhead again, who easily evaded it. In retaliation, Lavi made a quick motion with his hand toward the boy's solar plexus, dropping him to the ground in a quivering, shaking heap in under a few seconds.

"May I pass now?" Lavi asked, looking around at those in the group. They did not seem as cocky as before, their insults dying upon their tongues as they viewed the fate of their comrade. Arrogance lost, they backed away and dispersed; two other boys lingered long enough to grab their unconscious friend before hurrying to leave. The hallway was then clear of everyone except for Lavi, who stooped back down to collect his dropped possessions.

"You didn't see any of that," Lavi said aloud, as he piled his books back into the bag on the floor. He was not looking in Bookman's direction, but the comment was directed at him nonetheless.

"On the contrary, I do believe I did," Bookman replied, watching as Lavi gathered his quills and parchment that had been strewn onto the floor.

"Well of course you did," Lavi said, "but please don't tell anyone about it. The Clan doesn't condone fighting."

"You were not the instigator," Bookman answered. The boy kept his back to him as he filed everything away into his bag. Then he went about on his knees and collected the crumbled papers and broken bits of quills that had been thrown at him during the encounter.

"It doesn't matter," he said, making a pile of the rubbish, "because even if I was defending myself, I'll just get beaten over it." He picked up the pile with both hands and brought it to the nearest waste bin to dispose of the evidence from the scene. "Because you know, someone of my status isn't allowed to, and I quote: 'partake in any activity that may be detrimental to the learning ability of students'. That includes fighting, even in defensive situations. Even if I didn't start anything, I've got to take it. That's just the way it is." He turned back around to pick up his bag again, looking at Bookman seriously. "So please don't tell anyone if you don't have to."

"Very well," Bookman answered. Life had truly been unfair to the boy before him and it was such a shame that his future had been ruined with such restrictions. The outside world would have been crueler, no doubt, but at least out there, Lavi would have had a chance to possibly to something. He would die within these walls, either to old age or accidental death at the hands of another. What could possibly make him be able to rise in the morning, only to face another day where he was inferior to everyone? How could he rise when there was no chance of a future and only fear and beatings ahead of him? Bookman wondered where that strength came from.

"My essays," Lavi said, drawing Bookman out of his musings. Three rolls of parchment were produced, tied together with a thin, sad piece of twine. Bookman accepted them without a word, leaving Lavi to stand there for an awkward moment before turning around to take his leave. "Well…bye then." He had only taken a few steps when he turned around and backtracked to stand in front of Bookman once more. There was no nervousness or feigned politeness like the other candidates; there was only Lavi's too-serious expression on a too-young face staring at him in want of answers.

"You aren't lying to me, are you?" he asked.

"Concerning what?" Bookman asked in return.

"Concerning the conversation we had the other night," Lavi elaborated, "I mean…you'll really take me out to see the stars?" He was still such a child that Bookman could hear— despite Lavi's best attempts to sound like an adult—the tone of hope that bled into the question.

"If I find your essays to be intellectual," Bookman answered.

"And then?" Lavi asked; Bookman could tell that he was holding his breath, waiting for the news. He could almost see that Lavi was preparing himself for disappointment, but not yet ignoring that possibility. It almost hurt to look at someone who was so transparent, especially when moments before, there had been no indicator of emotion behind a stoic façade.

"One night," Bookman said.

"Really?" Lavi asked. Bookman responded with a mute nod. The response was immediate, almost as if he were witnessing the sunrise and every flower on the planet bloom at the same time. The radiance that was Lavi's smile was so drastically different from that impassive look the child had maintained since the day Bookman first met him. It was such a change from the collected nature of the boy who had brought down an opponent in a swift, cut throat move. Bookman was fascinated as much as he was perplexed at the enigma known as Lavi.

"Truthfully," Bookman said.

"Thank you," Lavi replied, with such genuine gratitude that Bookman was unable to form words immediately afterwards. He felt something that he did not like: a feeling that Bookman had presumed to have gone dormant many years ago. It was an ache inside of him that pitied the child and his situation. All he wanted was one night—a mere few hours—of stargazing. With that, he would be content for the rest of his sentence. He would be happy and Bookman knew that it would be one of the only times in his life when Lavi would be able to experience that state of being. It was those few hours of freedom to see the world beyond the bars of his lifetime cage.

Bookman wondered if a kind hand had ever touched him.

"Do not thank me. I have not reviewed your essays as of yet," Bookman said, in an attempt to keep up with the behaviors expected of him. For him to feel anything outside of neutrality for Lavi was transgressing on his title and he could not allow that. He was already putting himself out there with the stunt he pulled already; he did not need anyone judging his performance as Bookman on top of it.

"Oh, yeah, you're right," Lavi said, his smile faltering. If watching the boy smile had been the sunrise and the coming of spring, watching it die was witnessing the sunset and the beginning of winter. It came and darkened his hopeful gaze as snow froze his expression back into its hardened state. "I guess I got ahead of myself there…" With that said, everything settled back into place: a sterile transition into indifference once more, where hope was guarded beneath layers and layers of stoic coolness. He was protecting himself, Bookman realized. He was protecting the boy that had smiled so brightly and with such optimism before.

"I'll be going now, then," Lavi informed him, dropping his gaze. "Good luck with your work, sir." The politeness felt like a physical jab. Bookman's eyes followed the boy's figure as it moved down the hallway, not looking away until his red hair disappeared around the far corner. With everything said and done, Bookman returned to the quiet library and went back to his desk. It had been left in organized chaos that seemed purposeless somehow. The not-quite-up-to-scratch essays were swept away into a pile as he sat down. Placing the three scrolls on the tabletop in front of him, Bookman untied the loose knot of twine that bound them and paused to look out the window. A hawk was flying above the snowy peaks, riding thermals in the epitome of freedom.

_Unfair_, Bookman could only think, before settling down to read.

**pqpq**

It was an hour or so later when Bookman finished all three of Lavi's essays. Bookman was not one for flattery, but he had to admit that the boy had done spectacularly well with all three prompts for his age. His insights in relation to the topics were well articulated and developed at an educational level that even some of the older candidates had not yet reached. It was now quite apparent how much of a true waste it was to have the boy Bound and denied Furtherance, as he was quite talented. With a guiding hand, Bookman had no doubt that he could become one of the top students within the Clan.

"Well?"

Turning in his chair, Bookman's eyes landed upon Dakshina. She was the one who had uttered the word with displeasure, only further enforced by her tight expression and the arms that crossed over her chest.

"Can I help you, Dakshina?" Bookman asked in reply, not knowing the reason behind her barely masked hostility.

"I know it has something to do with you," she said, tone accusatory.

"I have not the faintest idea what you're talking about," Bookman replied, because he truly did not.

"It's Lavi," Dakshina said as she stalked forward, similar to the way a cat stalks their prey, "he's been very secretive these last few days, and all after you spoke with him."

"Perhaps he is merely a moody child," Bookman suggested, turning back to the desk. Lavi's essays were lying atop everything, plainly visible for anyone who cared to look. Bookman tried to seem nonchalant as he attempted to hide them from her sight. Dakshina appeared at his right elbow as he was sliding one of Lavi's parchments beneath another essay. However, he was not fast enough.

"Moody? I don't think so," she said, grasping onto the page before Bookman could bury it within the pile. "Why was he so busily writing then? And don't try to fool me; this is his handwriting! I should know!" Before Bookman could say anything in his defense, she had begun reading. Her eyes scanned the page, moving rapidly back and forth as she scanned through what the boy had written. It took a moment, but her eyes then widened with a sudden realization.

"You gave…you gave him _these_ prompts? Are you absolutely _kuang-zhe de_?" she asked, the force of her gaze meeting his with wrathful intensity.

"I do not my consider myself to be so," Bookman answered levelly, knowing full well that it would only propel the Indian woman to a more extreme level of rage.

"Bookman…" Dakshina said, her voice shaking with anger. Dakshina's hands clutched at the essay so tightly that Bookman feared her nails might pierce through the thin page. "These are the essay prompts you give to pupils that are to be considered as candidates for the Bookman apprenticeship! Not to—!"

"Why is everyone shouting in here? It's supposed to be a library!"

Enoch appeared, his face set in disappointment, as if he had been expecting to encounter a rowdy crowd of students. However, when he realized who it was, he immediately lost that look and opted for one of concern. After all, what could the Bookman and Archive Master possibly have to argue about? Dakshina was so furious that she could not answer. Enoch must have understood this, but opened his mouth despite himself.

"So…erm, how is that selection process going, Bookman?" he asked cheerfully in an attempt to soothe the uncomfortable air. It was the wrong thing to bring up, and Enoch fully understood this when Dakshina made a noise in her throat similar to that of a strangled cat. She threw down the essay, scattering the rest of Bookman's papers substantially, before stalking away in a huff. Enoch looked surprised for a good several moments and made to go after her, but then stopped. Perhaps he felt that it was unsafe and instead remained where he was beside Bookman.

"What…what just happened?" he asked.

"I have not the faintest idea," Bookman lied.

"Well, bother," Enoch said, sounding annoyed as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I wanted to see if I could steal her away for a bit, but if she's in this sort of mood…."

"Understandable," Bookman said, knowing full well the sort of fear of bodily injury could be inspired by Dakshina when she was in such a state.

"I guess I'll just let her...cool down..."

"Wise of you."

"In the meantime, I'll return to sit solitary...in my lonely office...with no one there to be with me...I just hope the loneliness just doesn't take over my poor, neglected soul..."

Bookman couldn't help but believe that Enoch truly had become needy.

**pqpq**

Somehow, Bookman had been persuaded to accompany Enoch to the East Wing. It was somewhat of an inconvenience, but it was much better than having Enoch mope over his solitary isolation. Because when Enoch was moping, a lot of strange and sometimes dangerous things happened. With his essays safely in the bag at his hip, Bookman followed the giddy, half-prancing East Shepherd to his office.

It had been a while since Bookman had been in the Eastern sub-headquarters and he found that it had changed drastically in the past five years. What had once been clean tables and stark lights had changed to a jungle of plant life in all shades and sizes: some as tall as the vaulted ceilings and others small enough that they could fit into the palm of someone's hand. Above, the lights were bright and luminous, which was much different in comparison to the dim light of gas lamps, candles, and the greenish glow of the halophosphate lanterns in the archives. It was a brilliant use of electricity, which was generally a foreign concept in Asia, more commonly used in the nicer parts of Europe. Even then, the lighting there wasn't as bright or as magnificent as the ones above.

"Purely fluorescent," Enoch explained, following Bookman's gaze. He smiled with pride at the development. "We wanted a greener source of energy, but due to our rather secretive location, solar panels wouldn't be possible. So, as of now, we're observing if fluorescent energy saving properties can hold out over the course of time. If that proves successful, we might be installing them all throughout headquarters. Not only will it be safer than candles and lanterns, but we'll be to better utilize energy. However, we are trying to figure out a way to make the lights _not_ toxic. Mercury poisoning can prove troublesome..." Bookman decided not to comment further and did not look up again, fearful for his retinas.

As they weaved through the foliage, scientists in white coats passed by with important strides, carrying arms full of books or strange-looking equipment. Others strode by in their flowing Clan robes, immersed in whatever was so important on their clipboards or inside their massive binders. The majority of them seemed to have their nose buried in something: research packets, experiment proposal folders, and one follow appeared to have a plant physically attached to his face. No one seemed to notice, not even the man with the carnivorous creature upon his body. Scientists were certainly interesting specimens, as Bookman had never met one who was boring or even close to average in his entire life.

"Here we are!" Enoch announced gaily, stepping over an overturned filing cabinet to lead Bookman to a door in the back corner. He opened it and disappeared inside, leaving Bookman outside next to a rather bizarre orange shrub. It almost looked like a snowman, but more disgusting, like it was breathing heavily. Stepping away, Bookman went closer to the office and stood in the doorway to peek into Enoch's office, or at least what could be assumed to have once been Enoch's office.

It was a chaotic mess.

Every surface was covered in something: piles of papers, books, binders, and those were the normal items. In addition to the several forests' worth of paper, there was also a variety of potted plants, silver and brass instruments, scrolls upon scrolls of accurate maps and diagrams. Atop these, there were test tubes coated in some ancient crud, petri dishes of what had to be cultured bacteria, and beakers containing old tea bags. Tacked up on every spare inch of wall space were photos, notes, and drying herbs. In the very center of the room, there was a large pile of an assortment of the aforementioned items. Bookman presumed it to be the desk, as Enoch made his way over the messy floor to sit behind it.

"_Qing jin_, don't be a stranger," Enoch said, waving Bookman inside genially. In his other hand, he held a teapot. Bookman did not know where he had procured it from, but decided not to ask as he entered. He could have sworn that the bright, orange shrub giggled at him when he passed.

"Don't mind her," Enoch advised as he stood up. "Phineas has been cross-breeding all sorts of plant life these past few years. That is the result of about five or six crosses between Asiatic and African plants: a mutant thing that no one wanted, so I took her in. She's got a right bad temper, though and bit me the other day. Want to see?" Before Bookman could decline the offer, Enoch had neared him and lifted the sleeve of his tunic to show him the injury. He displayed the wound like a four year-old boy proudly showing his mother a scrape he had acquired while out playing. It was a horrible-looking bite: tinged green and purple with a tad bit of yellow for good measure.

"We're not sure if she's poisonous yet," Enoch went on, not seeming bothered by _not_ knowing, "but I don't feel odd or anything at all."

"Why don't you get rid of it?" Bookman asked, as Enoch pulled his sleeve down and picked up his teapot again. Bookman glanced over his shoulder at the tree through the crack in the door. The shrub hissed at him as it turned a violent shade of red.

"Get rid of her? Certainly not!" Enoch replied, looking horrified at the prospect. "She's mine now. I named her and everything! It would be like getting rid of a child! You can't just abandon a child because they've been bad. No, no. You have to teach them. That's the only way, right, Abia? Daddy loves you." The plant shifted to a pale pink, perhaps pleased with the praise. Meanwhile, Bookman was contemplating Enoch's mental state. He had known from the day that he meant Enoch that the man was eccentric, but now he had reason to suspect that the East Shepherd was getting worse as the years went by. Why on Earth would he want to keep such a horrible plant? Perhaps the shrub was poisonous and the corresponding behavior was the result: it turned the person bitten into a loony.

"You might want to watch yourself, though," Enoch whispered in a conspiratorial tone as he leaned forward, like he wanted to make sure the plant could not overhear them, "because she might take a nip at you on the way out. So, Bookman,"—he raised his voice to normal—"let me get you a chair."

Within the cluttered place, Bookman could see that there were a few chairs in the room, but they all had things balancing precariously on them (was that _frog spawn_ breeding in that tank?) and it seemed that if someone even breathed too harshly nearby, the towers might collapse into further disorder. Enoch must have realized this as well, as he was forced to leave the office and steal a chair from somewhere else; probably unsuspecting person's desk. Bookman took the seat regardless and watched Enoch bustle around the room to make tea. At the same time, he warily eyed the shrub by the door, which—if it had eyes—might have been glowering at him from behind its crimson leaves.

"So, how have things been since you've returned?" Enoch asked conversationally.

"As well as they can be," Bookman answered. "And how have things transpired in my absence? The wing seems to still be standing despite your headship."

"Watch yourself there, Bookman," Enoch said, laughing, "you might give people the impression that you have a sense of humor!"

"Nonsense," Bookman replied.

"Ahh, just keep telling yourself that," Enoch said jovially. "As for the Wing, I've been trying to keep it in order. You know, I'd bet that if _shishou_ hadn't been cremated, he'd be turning over in his grave at everything I've done. He hated plants, remember? Thought the whole concept of breeding them and such was a waste of time. I don't know why, because he was rather talented in the Apothecarian sciences. You'd think that he would be interested in experimenting with different plants to make new remedies, but he was hard-headed...the old geezer..."

Bookman observed Enoch as he moved from his desk to another rickety table in the corner where some sort of strange contraption was set up. Removing a large looking rat from a case that had been obscured by a spider plant, Enoch set the animal in a large wheel within the contraption. He then procured a bit of cheese and hung it from a string in front of the wheel. When the rat started to run in the wheel after the cheese, a long metal rod fell from its place atop a peak, setting loose a silver marble into a maze of shoots and slides. From there, a whole number of things happened, which included things dropping, water boiling, and what Bookman was able to identify as the second movement of Bach's _Largo Ma Non Tanto_ in D Minor playing from a battered gramophone nearby. Over the two violins, Enoch spoke about a multitude of things that were too scientific in nature for even Bookman to follow easily.

"...this and that, and then when we started crossing over the more baneful plants and herbs, we started getting real results. Just recently, we've developed a remedy that has cured people of several different kinds of poisoning. We're hoping to learn more about what other types of poison it would be able to treat effectively, so as of late, we've been conducting a lot of research on that front. And I just know _shishou_ would have died if he saw what Bartleby and Hans are doing over in the Zoology Division. He never was a fan of plants _or_ animals, come to think of it, but he hated insects and reptiles the most. But all those spiders and snakes have venom that _is_ dreadfully useful..."

As Enoch continued about the various properties that individual snakes and spiders possessed, he produced two mismatched teacups from another unknown and mysterious location. Shortly thereafter, they were filled with the steaming, Echinacea tea. Enoch gave Bookman a teacup and went to retrieve his own that teetered dangerously on the edge of the table. He took it and placed it in another bad location on top of a rickety filing cabinet before picking up the rat and putting it back into its cage with a well-earned piece of Colby.

"That's a good boy, Perkins," said Enoch, as he closed the top of the cage. Taking up his teacup, he went back to his desk and sat across from Bookman: "He makes quite the cup of tea, I'll have you know; strains it and everything! Truly, rats are such intelligent creatures…" Behind him, Bookman could have sworn he heard the shrub give a huff of annoyance, but Enoch didn't seem to notice and took a sip of his tea with a pleased smile.

"Anyway, anyway, enough of me going on and on, how's the—" Before he could finish, the door opened with a resounding slam against the back wall as two identical men burst into the room. They were tall with red, shoulder-length hair, a good helping of freckles, and matching grins upon their faces. Although they couldn't have been more than five and twenty years old, they were cheerfully bouncing about as if they were just five.

"We've done it—"

"Finally—"

"Absolutely—"

"Brilliantly—"

"Splendidly—"

"And did we mention—"

"That we finally—"

"Finished?"

They chorused their last line together in similar tenors, after that whole excited bit of one cutting off the other in their haste to relay whatever it is that they had finally finished so spectacularly. However, Enoch did not ask and made an expression that could have been anything between confused and surprised. In either case, he did not seem bemused by the two English men in his office, and calmly turned to Bookman with a look of trained patience.

"Bookman," Enoch began, "this is Manas and Ganesa." When he pointed to Manas and then to Ganesa, Bookman couldn't tell the difference between them at all. They seemed to be identical right down the very last freckle. "They joined us from Britain almost three years ago to help in the Alchemic Research and Scientific Experimentation Division."

"Otherwise known as ARSED" they put in together, smiling perverted smiles.

"Be nice, you two," Enoch said in a fondly tolerant manner over the rim of his teacup.

"Right boss!" they replied, with mocking salutes.

"And as I was saying, you two, this is Bookman—"

"_The_ Bookman?" they asked together, both of their eyes widening at precisely the same time. Enoch nodded and took another sip of his tea as the twins stood there in presumable shock. During that moment, nothing happened, as if it was taking longer than it should have for that information to reach their (probably matching) brains. However, once it registered, the twins swooped down upon Bookman, shaking both his hands simultaneously with an increased amount of enthusiasm.

"So nice to meet you!"

"An honor, really it truly is!"

"We've heard so much about you—"

"From Enoch, but we thought he was having us on—"

"Because we didn't think he really _knew_ anyone important—"

"We just thought he liked to dress up—"

"And walk with his manly—"

"Shepherd-ly swagger—"

"And fix his hair a lot—"

"So he could try to woo the ladies—"

"Failing miserably—"

"From what we've heard, anyways," they finished together, grinning mischievously. The shrub outside of the door sniggered, but Enoch looked hurt at such accusations.

"Oh, don't make that face, Enoch," said Manas (or was it Ganesa?) imploringly.

"Besides we know—" began the other.

"It's only one girl—"

"That Enoch's got eyes for—"

"And that's not all he's got for her," said one of the twins behind his hand in a perverted tone.

"Oho! Do tell!" said the other, in similar voice.

"Shut up!" Enoch said, throwing the nearest binder at the ginger closest to his desk as a threat. Beside the doorframe, Bookman could hear the plant snickering, though softer than before. It had turned a muted shade of magenta, most likely in its attempts to be quiet. "What was it you two wanted anyway?" the Shepherd asked in order to change the subject, cheeks still pink with embarrassment. "Have you finished with that Transmutation circle yet?"

"We finished that ages ago," the twins said together, sounding annoyed that their boss had not realized that fact prior to that moment.

"We had to—" began one of them.

"Because if we didn't—"

"It would be horrible—"

"Terrible—"

"_Embarrassing_—"

"If those two brothers—"

"Those _Elric_ brothers—"

"Beat us again!"

"Showing us up all the time!"

"We think they're cheating anyways."

"Because maybe they found the Philosopher's stone."

"That would be brilliant to have…"

"Brilliant—"

"Amazing—"

"Spectacular—"

"Are you ever going to get to the point?" Enoch interrupted, rubbing his temples at their antics. The twins paused and thought for a moment, before the light bulb went on at precisely the same moment in their minds.

"Oh, we wanted to show you—"

"Our wonderful, new—"

"Amazing—"

"Completely useful—"

"And simple—"

"Just get on with it," Enoch interrupted them again. Just as they were taking a breath to continue, a haggard-looking woman stumbled into the office wearing the remains of a ripped and burned Clan kimono. The fabric was blackened and a long tear ran up the side of the robe, revealing a nasty burn that ran along her upper thigh. Beside her, the horrible plant gave an appreciative whistle at the view and she hastily hurried inside the office to get away from it, pulling the ripped pieces closed in an attempt at modesty. With her free hand, she straightened her cracked glasses and glared through them at the two redheaded men.

"You two!" she shouted, stepping over the cluttered mess that was Enoch's floor. A few strands of hair fell out of her bun, looking singed and as black as her ruined kimono. "I don't know what you did, but you're responsible for everything!"

"What did we do?" asked one twin.

"Yes, we've been here the entire time!" said the other.

"So don't blame us!" they replied.

"I don't want to hear it!" she said, pointing her finger accusingly at one man and then his brother with an equal amount of anger towards the two identical men. "It is your fault! We've got those chickens everywhere and somehow that _Komodo_ dragon got out of its cage and is running around, only God-knows-where! And if that wasn't enough, we now we have that nargle on the loose!" Bookman wondered what a nargle could be, but decided to not bother asking. It was probably some kind of strange new creature that had been accidentally bred in the Zoology Division. The East Wing worked wonders like that sometimes.

"How did it get out?" asked one of the twins.

"We locked the cage—"

"Locked it twice—"

"Triple locked it, in fact—"

"Well it got out! Breathing fire all over the place! Burning up all my papers!" she was shouting in fragments of anger. "And Phineas is in a right state over the fact that half of his research has completely turned to ash—!"

"All right, woman!" said one of them.

"We're getting right on it!" said the other.

With that said, the both of them turned and walked out the door. The woman followed them, still yelling about the havoc their experiments caused while narrowly avoiding a nip from the plant outside Enoch's door. Once they were gone, the East Shepherd sighed and rubbed his temples again. He seemed a little older after such excitement and when Bookman looked closer, he could see that the man before him had indeed gotten older since they had last met. Enoch had some lines up on his forehead; worry lines, some might call them. There were more beneath the shadows under his eyes, which were still youthful despite his aging appearance. His hair was grayer than ever. But despite this, Enoch seemed happy and wore his years well. The majority of his wrinkles were not from stress, but from laughing, as was apparent from their soft locations around his mouth and eyes. The graying blonde of his hair only served to make him appear more learned and intelligent than the brilliant gold that had practically advertised inexperience.

"Those two," he said, chuckling good-naturedly when he noticed Bookman's observant stare. He went back to his tea, as did Bookman. When he was through, he continued: "They're going to be the death of me one day. Promising alchemists, the both of them, and brilliant scientists, though they are a little on the reckless side at times…" Beyond the office, Bookman could hear what sounded (and smelled) like more things catching on fire. Through the crack in the door, Bookman noticed that the shrub was quivering in excitement, probably due to the violence and destruction around it, the horrible creature.

"They are too young to be your apprentices," Bookman stated, his voice nudging Enoch for more information regarding the two.

"Most definitely," Enoch agreed, giving Bookman a cocky smirk, "because I am, after all, _way_ too young to even think about taking on an apprentice. Besides, think about what would happen if _they_ ran the wing. The place not might be left standing!"

"This is a very accurate observation," Bookman said.

"Besides, even if I wanted to, they're too close to my own age to become my successors," Enoch replied with a shake of his head. "I'll just have to wait for a younger one to come along. Hopefully you don't take the pick of the litter in your selection!" Bookman glanced down to the bag containing the bundle of essays. Enoch followed his gaze, though how he could see what Bookman was looking at over the mess upon his desk, the old man had no idea.

"How is the process going, by the way? I hope that you have taken into consideration my candidates," Enoch said.

"Along with a few others, I am considering two of yours," Bookman answered truthfully. Enoch practically beamed, as if that praised him more than anything.

"Smart as whips, I tell you. Although some of them do have tongues to match," Enoch said.

"Oh, they sass then?"

"Incessantly."

"How troublesome."

"They'll grow out of it, though. They all do, or at least I did. Can't say much for Manas and Ganesa though..." Enoch said thoughtfully, looking off into space before shaking his head. Apparently everyone had given up on trying to teach those twins anything.

"Yes, well, they will learn quickly that I do not tolerate that sort of behavior. If I'm to have an apprentice, they, no matter what age, are expected to act like a responsible adult," Bookman replied.

"You might want to consider some from the older part of the age pool if I were you," Enoch advised, looking at Bookman; he twirled his empty teacup between his fingers.

"Perhaps I might," Bookman answered, pausing to collect his thoughts. One had crossed his mind; one that he knew no one would approve of, as he himself didn't entirely approve of it either. But it was a waste to not consider the possibility of… "However some of the best essays have come from one the younger applicants."

"Oh, really? And who might that be?" Enoch asked, somewhat eagerly.

From outside, apart from the occasional yell or crash, the noises were beginning to quiet down, but the distinct smell of burning parchment—and was that _flesh_?—reached his nose. The shrub gave a shuddering cough before turning a dark shade of slate gray.

"Who? I'm dreadfully curious," Enoch pressed, leaning forward a little in excitement. A stack of papers slipped off his desk, but he didn't seem to notice. His behavior reminded Bookman of a child who wanted to be let in on a secret that no one else knew.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Enoch," Bookman said.

"Inquiring minds need to know," was his answer. It made Bookman ponder the possible consequences if he told Enoch about Lavi's essays. He wondered if it might be beneficial; perhaps he could get some information out of the Shepherd about the boy, his capabilities and temperament. On the other hand, telling Enoch could result negatively. Enoch was a Shepherd and if he did not agree with Bookman's thoughts, he had the ability to pull a few stunts to make a lot of things extremely difficult. Though Enoch was not truly that sort of person, Bookman knew that he would do anything that Dakshina asked of him. That was dangerous, seeing as how the woman seemed genuinely upset at the prospect of Lavi having anything to do with the apprenticeship. Of course, Bookman reminded himself, he was planning nothing of the sort.

He was merely putting the pieces of an interesting puzzle into place.

"It is Dakshina, is it not?" Bookman replied, in an attempt to catch Enoch off guard. It worked, especially when the Shepherd went red.

"W-What?" he asked in an obvious manner. Even the tree outside could see through him, as apparent by the way it giggled and changed from gray to orange.

"She is the one you have been trying to impress," Bookman elaborated.

"Idon'tknowwhatyou'retalkingabout," Enoch replied quickly, his words stumbling over themselves with embarrassment. His fingers fumbled nervously with the empty teacup, flipping and dropping it onto the desk several times in his anxious fidgeting.

"If I remember correctly, she likes lotuses," Bookman said. He recalled a moment in time so many years ago when he had first met Dakshina. She had merely been a student then, in her first or second year, when she ran into him upon his return after three years of recording in Egypt. It had been anything but a trivial conversation, when Bookman truly thought back upon the time Dakshina had approached him. She had not known who he was at the time and Bookman had not cared much about who she was either, but there had been something curious about her and the way her eyes looked up at him that made him pause.

And she asked him: _Do you believe in God_?

_No_ he answered. _I don't_. He remembered everything about that moment: it was evening, close to nine-thirty and it was dark in the hallways leading to South Library. There was that smell of preservative and old books, secrets and shadows and then that girl standing in the dark all alone. She was such a child and yet, so old, even when she smiled.

_Neither do I_ she said. _There's no one here to save us from anything_.

_There is only yourself in this world_ Bookman answered, as it was a truth he had come to understand after years of traveling. There was no such thing as God in a world where war and famine were commonplace. There was no such being as a God when people begged and prayed to Him or Them or Whoever Was Listening to save them. There could be no such thing as God when everyone died alone. _Remember that. Human beings have only themselves. We are born in the darkest of places, much like the lotus flower. A seed can live in darkness for hundreds of years at the bottom of the dirtiest, most swamp-like place. It wallows in the mud, attempting to rise to the surface. It struggles and suffers with no aid from any higher power. Sometimes, the lotus dies before it can break free. Other times, it manages to escape the filth and force its way towards the light. When it finally reaches that place, it blooms to complete perfection. There was no God. There was only strife and misery. It was the determination of a spirit that produced beauty; it saved itself from damnation._

_It lived_ she said and smiled _that's all I wanted to hear. _As he walked away towards the archives, he heard her voice behind him. _Thank you. I think the lotus is now my favorite flower._

"Hm, lotuses?" Enoch repeated, rubbing his chin in thought. "Those are a little rare…" With Enoch's guard lowered, Bookman thought it best to continue with his main course of action.

"Tell me about that boy. The redheaded one that follows Dakshina around so much," Bookman said.

"What about him?" Enoch asked.

"He seems a bit odd," Bookman replied, trying to put forth the image of a person who knew nothing about the boy's situation. He was digging carefully, not wanting to seem too interested. Because he wasn't, Bookman had to tell himself repeatedly. The reason for his inquiry was not because he wanted to accept Lavi as a candidate for the apprenticeship; it was merely curiosity.

"You might be a bit odd as well if you experienced everything that boy went through," Enoch said, righting his teacup with a glance at Bookman, "well, at that age anyway."

"He seems to function perfectly fine," Bookman replied.

"Lavi is a strange child, I'll admit, but I think he is far from being fine," Enoch answered with a shake of his head. "Dakshina brought him back from Syangboche after those terrible riots with the Tibetian government. Only survivor of the Blood Rebellion, poor thing…"

"He seems to be rather well-educated," Bookman pressed.

"Dakshina taught him a few things," Enoch said, "like reading and writing. Once he learned that, Lavi practically taught himself everything afterwards. I heard from Dakshina that he has already learned a few languages and is reading at a level that I didn't reach until I was at least seventeen. If I didn't know better, I'd say the boy's a prodigy." As enough said this, his gaze darkened with something that Bookman believed to be regret. Perhaps Enoch felt responsible for Lavi's unfortunate status within the Clan after all.

"I did not know he possessed such a mind," Bookman said, as he did not. Although Lavi had impressed him with his essays and the difficult tomes in foreign languages, he had not even considered the boy to be anything close to a genius. However, it was possible that Lavi learned at an accelerated rate, especially when his reasoning and comprehension skills were so developed.

"Very much so, but he is rather quiet and spends most of his time reading…" Enoch said, words trailing off as he began eyeing Bookman warily. The problem Bookman experienced when fishing for information with intelligent individuals was that sometimes, they caught on. "Why bring him up all of a sudden?"

"Curiosity," Bookman answered vaguely. It was the truth, after all. Just like Dakshina, Lavi had captured his attention with his strange personality. In truth, Bookman believed that he actually possessed the correct mindset and temperament to be considered as apprentice material. He did not have any emotional attachment to the boy whatsoever, but was merely thinking of the future. If he were to die, who would he want to succeed him? The best candidate for his title would be someone of Lavi's capabilities…

"You're not thinking—" Enoch began, meeting Bookman's eyes. Bookman did not say anything at all, but it seemed that the Shepherd had put everything into place from earlier and he all but jumped up in indignation. "_No_! Bookman! He's too young!"

"Enoch, his essays were remarkable," Bookman said. "He surpassed all twelve candidates from each House."

"He's too young for you to even be _considering_ him! How did he get the essay prompts anyway?" Enoch asked, his voice rising in pitch.

"I gave them to him," Bookman answered.

"Irresponsible!"

The East Shepherd's fist slammed down on his desk, knocking over the pile of books and papers that had been teetering dangerously on the edge of the table. They crashed onto the floor, sending up a flurry of loose pages and small note squares. Enoch was positively livid, though Bookman could not understand why. Gone was the smiling, good-humored man from before, replaced with only a cold fury that seemed out of place on Enoch's face. Outside the doorframe, the shrub's leaves were twittering with glee. Enoch, on the other hand, had not yet sat down, his expression still hard with anger.

"I can't believe that you—"

"And we're back!" At these words, the door was thrown open again as Manas and Ganesa appeared. Both of them looked a bit singed around the eyebrows and fingertips, but still in tact for the most part. One part of the dynamic duo had a large cut on his forehead; his brother supported a terrible burn on his right hand

"You two," Enoch said, without sparing them a glance, "get out."

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a bunch," said the one with the cut.

"We put out all the fires," informed the other.

"And we caught the nargle—"

"And the Komodo dragon—"

"And all the chickens are rounded up—"

"Get out, you two," Enoch said again, his tone low and dangerous. It was very disconcerting to see Enoch's mood fluctuate so quickly and all over that boy, too. If anything, it increased Bookman's curiosity tenfold.

"What's got you all bothered?" asked the one with the burn.

"It looks like he just got turned down," said the other.

"By his lady friend?" they asked together, wearing matching grins.

"OUT YOU TWO!" Enoch roared. Bookman had never heard Enoch speak above an indoor voice before, so hearing him shout was rather startling. The twins appeared to feel the same way, going so far as to grip onto each other in fear. His voice had even the shrub outside so badly that it turned white and nearly toppled over out of its pot.

"_Oi_, what were you talking about anyways?" asked one of the twins, addressing Bookman.

"He never gets this mad when we tease him," said the other.

"We were talking about Lavi," replied Bookman, despite Enoch's warning glare. "Do you know him?" The twins looked at each other before coming closer to speak to Bookman out of Enoch's throwing range.

"Do you mean the short—"

"Little—"

"Red-headed—"

"One-eyed—"

"Kid?" they asked in unison.

"Yes," Bookman replied easily. He could tell that Enoch was seething behind him, even without turning around. But Bookman had no fear of the Shepherd, and continued to engage in conversation with the two scientists who were of the same jaded nature.

"Yeah, we know him," said the one with the burn on his hand.

"Cute little thing," added the other.

"Very witty."

"Indeed."

"Good with almost everything, you know."

"Even advanced mathematics and physics!"

"He helped us with an equation about a week ago. Smart lad."

"Actually, we just saw him running around the place somewhere."

"Told him to scoot or else he'd be wearing two eye patches."

"Got a little burned on the way out, though, didn't he?"

The both of them snickered behind their hands at their personal jokes and humor. The shrub gave an evil chuckle as well at the misfortune. Behind them, Enoch cleared his throat in order to retrieve their attention.

"If you're all done, kindly—" Enoch began, his voice much calmer than before. But was once again, he was interrupted by the two redheaded twins.

"Leave?" asked the twins together.

"Yes," Enoch replied. From where Bookman stood, he could see the annoyed twitch to Enoch's brow and silently applauded his self-restraint.

"Why?" they inquired, with matching tilts of their heads. Enoch opened his mouth and then closed it, taking in a deep breath. It looked as if he would have very much liked to hit the both of them, but was restraining himself. A distraction shifted his attention, however, and Bookman watched as his demeanor changed as his gaze moved to the doorway. Lavi was standing there, tinier than the large stack of books by the exit, holding a live chicken beneath one of his arms. The mutant houseplant, Abia, was nuzzling the side of his face and neck, purring like a morbid kitten. He patted it with his free hand before coming inside; it flushed rose at his touch.

When he entered into the room and realized who was inside, he took a step back, as if fearing he had interrupted their tense conversation. It didn't help that Enoch had turned away in order to pretend he was organizing things, giving him the cold shoulder. The twins placed themselves on both sides of him, busily attempting to get a rise out of him by poking and jabbing him with their fingers and comments about his teenage crush on Dakshina. With those three otherwise engaged in ignoring him, Lavi looked at Bookman curiously for a moment; the old man could see a rather nasty burn upon his cheek. When no one said anything to him immediately, Lavi took another step backwards towards the door apologetically

"Sorry for intruding," Lavi said, but before he could make it out of the office, the twins had realized he was there and caught him by the collar of his robes.

"Oh, look," said the twin with the cut on his forehead.

"We were just talking about you," said the other.

"Oh, really? Is that why my ears were burning?" Lavi asked, as the two of them pulled him back into the room.

"Yeah, we were saying awfully—"

"Terribly—"

"Dreadfully mean things about you," they informed him.

"How nice," Lave replied dryly, narrowing his only eye at one, then the other. From beneath his arm, the chicken clucked and tried to flap its wings. It settled on pecking at Lavi's sleeve instead, until the redhead looked down with surprise, as if he just realized it was there.

"Oh, I found this in the hall," Lavi said, handing the chicken to the twin with the burn on his hand. He accepted the chicken and pulled it into the crook of his arm, kissing the top of its head like an affectionate mother. Bookman knew that the people in the science division were a little strange, but these two took the cake.

"They've been escaping for the past week…" muttered the twin not holding the chicken. "Why do they keep running away?" Bookman could have sworn he heard Enoch mutter something behind his clipboard that sounded like: _because you're crazy_.

"I thought that the West Shepherd was going to kill it, so I grabbed it before he could," Lavi replied with a shrug.

"Rong likes killing things doesn't he?" asked the one now holding the chicken.

"Birds, cats—"

"Dogs—"

"Insects—"

"Children," they said together, grinning down at Lavi.

"He's just a nice fellow like that," Lavi replied. "What happened to you, by the way?" His attention was focused upon the rips and burns to their bodies and clothing, which were more substantial than the injury to Lavi's own cheek.

"We couldn't get Juniper back into her cage," said one of them.

"Got us both, that she did," said the other.

"It was awful," they announced together. The chicken clucked in agreement.

"I could only assume so," Lavi replied.

"And now Enoch's mad at us—"

"For something we didn't do at all—!"

"We weren't even here!"

"And now we're in trouble!" they cried. Lavi glanced over at Enoch, whom Bookman noticed would not meet his gaze as the Shepherd was too preoccupied with whatever it was he was pretending to be doing to look him.

"It looks like he's mad at you too," said the one holding the chicken.

"Oh, what a shame," said the other.

"In the meantime, Lavi—"

"You could come with us!" they cheered, closing in on the smaller boy with matching smirks that Bookman did not feel were trustworthy in the slightest.

"Why...?" Lavi asked warily, taking a small step back as they invaded his personal space. He did not get far as each twin put a hand on one of his small shoulders, preventing him from moving anywhere they did not direct him.

"We want to show you something—"

"Our wonderful new—"

"Amazing—"

"Completely useful—"

"And simple—"

But Bookman didn't get to hear the rest because the two of them steered Lavi out of the room, past the biting plant and disappeared into the charred remains of the East Wing.

**pqpq**

Revised 11/10/2009

Dhampir72


	6. Bookman's Consideration

**Chapter 6: Bookman's Consideration**

Over the course of the next few days, Bookman practiced what could be considered avoidance techniques, which required steering clear of both Dakshina and Enoch. It meant that the South Library and East Wing were no longer places Bookman could station himself, as he did not want to meet either one of them before their heads cooled down. Young people were always so easy to anger, but difficult to assuage. For that very reason, Bookman took to haunting the West Library, which was out of the dangerous territory and in more neutral waters. It was not Bookman's preferred place of work, as it was characterized by no windows and bad lighting. However, it was quiet. Very few people wandered into the library during the rest of that week, though a small group of timid-looking first or second years did wander in sometime before lunch one day in search of study materials. They spoke in urgent whispers amongst themselves as they stole furtive glances at Bookman from in between the shelves. The head librarian continuously glared at him from him desk until they left in a great, noisy haste.

It was at the end of the third day when Bookman crossed paths with the West Shepherd, Rong. He was rather short—though tall in comparison to Bookman, which annoyed him greatly—and had long white hair that was tied into a severe ponytail at the top of his head. Both his beard and mustache were neatly combed in a walrus-looking way that would have been quite comical if Rong were not such a stern looking man. His eyes were hard and cold and his lips were habitually pulled into a mean frown. If anything, he looked like a very angry Confucius, which always provided amusement, but purely in thought. After all, if Rong knew, it would be a frightening experience to witness his reaction.

"Bookman," he acknowledged him with a slight inclination of the head.

"Rong," Bookman said, returning the gesture.

And that was all.

Rong was not one for idle chitchat, which Bookman believed was a good thing. After all, Bookman wouldn't have known what to say if they had decided to reminisce over tea together. It would mostly consist of childhood memories where Rong was harsh and cruel, beating people with long sticks until they cried while Bookman sat off in the corner reading a book, completely ignoring the scene. Needless to say, they were not close, despite the mutual respect they maintained for one another.

As Rong strode off in the opposite direction, Bookman headed his own way towards the lifts in East. As it was evening, very few people were out, except the small number of straggling students running off to their astronomy lessons. In addition to their clumsy footsteps, there was the occasional chicken clucking its way down the empty corridors. Bookman wondered how many of those birds were running around loose, which brought to mind another question that made him ponder _Why chickens? _He had no sooner thought this when, while rounding a corner, Bookman almost ran head-first into Manas and Ganesa. The two twins were holding long handled nets similar to lacrosse rackets and their heads were adorned with identical hats that resembled pasta strainers.

"Ahoy there, Bookman!" said one of them with a small wave. Bookman noticed he had a bandage on his hand. The other had a strip of gauze covering a wound over his right eyebrow. Despite these indicators, Bookman could still not tell the two apart.

"Should I even inquire as to what the two of you are doing?" Bookman asked, wondering if he would regret voicing it aloud.

"You've just caught us on our most recent expedition," said the brother with the gauze.

"We're on a truly fantastical journey," said the other. Bookman doubted that _fantastical_ was a word, but he remained silent on the subject and merely raised an eyebrow.

"It stars us as the main characters, of course!" said the first.

"The two of us are on a daring mission filled with frightening perils—"

"Epic adventures—"

"Sweeping romances—"

"Romances?" asked the other.

"_Sweeping _romances," replied the first.

"What a fantastic plan we can utilize to win over the female audience in addition to the teens and young adult males," said his twin, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Oh, isn't it? And what else could there possibly be to make it even more appealing?"

"_Pirates_!"

"Pirates?"

"Pirates."

"Brilliant!"

"Indeed!"

"So, Bookman, good chap, you can see why—"

"We're so dreadfully excited about all of this—"

"Because we may not come back alive!" they announced together.

"But don't feel left out! We're always looking for a sidekick!" said the one with the bandaged hand. Bookman shook his head; he had never seen two grown men act like such children.

"If the two of you are in search of a chicken, there is one back in the hall just outside of the West Annex," Bookman offered, not wanting to be included in such activities with the two eccentric alchemists.

"Oh, sweet," whistled the one with the gauze on his forehead.

"Thanks a lot," said the other, readying his net.

"You're a pal!" they grinned simultaneously before hurrying off in a laughing, skipping mess. Bookman felt too embarrassed to watch them until they finally disappeared, so he turned and continued on his way before they were even down the hall. The quickest route back to the North Tower section was to take the lifts directly from East as every other elevator in the place required numerous transfers that were quite inconvenient. It would be unfortunate to run into Enoch or Dakshina—either of which could be utilizing the convenience of said lifts—but Bookman could and would not avoid them forever. He could only hope that they had calmed down to the point where they would not completely become absorbed in wrath upon seeing his countenance.

As he neared East, Bookman slowed his pace and kept his attention on high alert for any signs of the East Shepherd or Archive Master. He stopped around the corner from the office area, just a few meters from the lifts, but paused to make sure that the corridor was empty. He had to tell himself that his actions did not constitute as "sneaking around" because he did not feel guilty in the slightest for his actions. He merely wanted to avoid the yelling and the objects that might possibly be thrown at him.

Between the office labs and elevators, there was not a single soul save for a single woman. Upon looking closer, Bookman recalled her as the same woman who had been in the burned kimono three days passed. Though she wasn't wearing the blackened robe any longer, she still retained the same angry expression upon her face as she stood there, seemingly waiting for something. A strange sound caught Bookman's further attention: three chickens on leashes were clucking around by her ankles. They pecked at her feet and she grumbled at them, straightening up with an air that made Bookman believe she would have liked hitting the birds with her heavy clipboard.

"Enoch's not here, you know."

Bookman turned around at the voice from behind him and found himself face-to-face with a large stack of books. Several of them were encyclopedias, others merely large reference materials. The one teetering on the top read _The Doctrine of Signatures_; Bookman righted it so that it didn't fall.

"How do you know?" Bookman asked.

"Because I just saw him down in South Library with Dakshina-san," said the books, "well, more like I _heard_ them. They were shouting about something. I couldn't make it out over the echo…" The volumes shifted and Bookman was able to then see a tuft of familiar red hair around the girth of a gigantic tome entitled _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_.

"Shouting, hm?" Bookman said, mostly to himself. In all his years, he had never heard Dakshina or Enoch raise their voices, even when feeling exceedingly angry. But apparently they were still deeply upset and had not calmed down as Bookman had previously hoped.

"They have been for a few days now," Lavi informed him, "and they've been glaring at me too, like I did something wrong." Bookman did not say anything in response. Out in the main corridor, he heard the woman with the chickens sneeze loudly into the crook of her arm.

"You didn't do it, did you?" Lavi asked, straining to peek over his enormous pile of volumes.

"Do what?"

"Make them mad."

"Why would you believe that I did?"

"Because you're the one who's looking around corners like you're fleeing from the police," said Lavi astutely, "plus, I merely chose Enoch's name at random; it could have been anyone in the East Wing you were avoiding, but you responded immediately to his." That one single eye managed to capture Bookman in its curious gaze. "Did you two have a row?"

"Your reasoning regarding Enoch is remarkable, however you are wrong in your assumption that we argued."

"Oh, really…" The stare relented and Lavi once again disappeared behind his books, his voice not sounding convinced. From around the corner Bookman heard the woman yelling at the chickens, one of which had apparently just defecated on her shoe.

"Well, I guess it'll all get sorted out in the end," Lavi said, walking around Bookman with his stack of books swaying dangerously with each step. Bookman was about to head in the opposite direction towards the lifts when he heard the thundering sound of footsteps coming from that area. He remained where he was and listened as the footfalls fell harder and shouting soon accompanied it, echoing harshly off the high ceilings. Even from his distance, Bookman was able to identify who the culprits were immediately, as their bright red hair and shiny hats were unmistakable. Where Manas and Ganesa were, chaos reigned, so Bookman knew that the outcome of their action would not bode well.

"CATCH THAT CHICKEN!"

"I'M TRYING!"

"WELL RUN FASTER!"

"WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE? I'M MOSEYING OVER HERE?"

"JEZA! CATCH IT!"

The woman, Jeza, who stood with the tethered birds, looked surprised as a renegade chicken flapped by her. Its presence caused the others to break out in a loud bout of clucking and flapping as they tried to escape their leashes. Jeza held onto the leashes tightly, but the amount of confusion and commotion made her lose her footing and she fell backwards onto the ground. The chickens escaped her hold and scattered about. The twins were on them seconds later, attempting to capture the escaped chickens with their nets. They managed to get two and somehow Jeza caught the third from her position, leaving only the fourth remaining: the initial culprit. As Manas and Ganesa scrambled to their feet and caused a ruckus even louder than before, Bookman noticed that a crowd had gathered from the nearby offices and laboratories. He would never get to the lifts at this rate. However, the thought was a fleeting one, as a loud clamor issued from his left and startled him back into reality with a barrage of voices yelling at the same time:

"OW!"

"_ZAO GAO_!"

"_AI YA_!"

"CATCH IT!"

"DAMN IT!"

"GOT IT!"

While trying to capture the last of their escaped project, Manas and Ganesa had run into Lavi, causing all three of them to topple to the ground. They were surrounded by chaos: Lavi's books that had been strewn about the floor and a plethora of feathers from the escapee. The said chicken was struggling in one of the twins' arms; both of them beamed, proudly accomplished with themselves. Bookman thought they looked terribly ridiculous in those odd hats, but that was his own personal opinion. And it seemed he was not the only person who felt anything but gratitude towards the twins. Lavi's expression had gone from dizzily surprised to annoyed in a matter of seconds, his actions only highlighting his irritation when he stood and began to collect his books. The sources of this exasperation did not notice, and continued to smile as they picked themselves up from the floor and straightened their rumpled robes.

"Did you see? Jeza, aren't we spectacular?" the twins asked, holding up the chicken for the disgruntled woman to see. She was still on the floor, grasping at the leashes of the contained chickens once more. Bookman could tell she was even unhappier than before as she muttered something that sounded like "I'll show you_ spectacular…_" and she adjusted her skewed glasses. Pulling herself up into a sitting position, she clenched her fists in rage, but apparently could not muster up the strength to speak. The people that had accumulated in the hallways or behind the windows in the offices were still staring, adding to her vexation. It mounted further when the chickens struggled and pecked at her arms and legs.

"You…_twins_…" she managed to get out, but so softly Bookman doubted if the targets of her words had heard. After all, they were still smiling happily as they neared her, not even helping Lavi, who had been one of the other people inconvenienced by the twins' antics. To show his aggravation, Lavi glared after them momentarily before he began stacking his books loudly with resounding slams.

The twins were oblivious.

"The chase was quite an adventure, don't you think so?" asked one twin.

"Indeed, it was," replied the other.

"I thought we were magnificent."

"That's because we are."

"Oh, aren't we?" they laughed together.

"I'LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU ARE!" Jeza shouted.

"Amazing?" they asked in unison.

"IRRESPONSIBLE, LAZY DUNDER-HEADS! I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT YOU LET THEM GET OUT _AGAIN_!"

"Irresponsible?" asked the one with the bandage on his hand.

"Lazy?" asked the one with the chicken.

"Dunder-heads?" they cried.

"YES! THE BOTH OF YOU!" Jeza yelled with such fury that her hair began falling out of its bun. "DIM-WITTED MORONIC FOOLS! YOU BOTH ARE _JING-CHANG MEI YONG DE_!"

"Well, at least she didn't call us wankers," said one to his brother.

"Or nancies," said the other.

"Or impertinent prats."

"Or ignorant dunces."

"Or—"

"OH, I'M NOT DONE WITH YOU YET SO DON'T EVEN GO THERE!" Jeza screamed, in such a pitch that Bookman feared for the nearby glass windows. The dark-haired woman was panting from the force of her yelling. As she caught her breath, the twins were silent. Their faces were completely devoid of humor; something Bookman had not yet seen, so it was almost eerie. It must have inspired the same feeling in Jeza, as she suddenly appeared worried by their expressions. The two pairs of brown eyes blinked once, then twice, as if they were just noticing Jeza for the first time.

"You know, Jeza," began the one with the chicken.

"You look awfully pretty—"

"Actually, quite beautiful—"

"Gorgeous even—"

"When you wear your hair down," they chorused, their trademark smiles returning. They were fond and not mocking, however, which was a change of pace.

"Wh-What?" she sputtered, turning red. Her reaction to their words made the twins' grins return; around their ankles, the chickens clucked loudly in a choir of noise. As the two brothers edged closer to Jeza to make her even more uncomfortable with the situation and the attention it brought, Lavi merely shook his head and lifted his stack of books, walking in the direction he had previously been going. With the action over and done with, the people began to disperse back into their offices, perhaps having seen the current spectacle before or because it did not interest them as much as the yelling had.

Just as Bookman was about to take his leave, he heard Enoch's voice drifting from the location of the elevators. A female tenor responded to him in a tone that was distinctly Dakshina. As they were the two people Bookman wanted to avoid for the time being—especially both of them in the same place at the same time—he instead went off in the opposite direction, following behind the stack of books inconspicuously as they rounded a bend and disappeared down another hallway.

"You guys did have a fight," Lavi said, looking over his shoulder at Bookman when he appeared behind the child, "I knew it."

"It was not a fight," Bookman replied, as it was pointless to attempt to conceal himself any longer. He defended himself with a reasonable reply: "We merely had a difference of opinion."

"I thought that's what a fight _was_," Lavi said, halting his steps so that Bookman could catch up to him and they could walk side-by-side. For once, Bookman was the taller participant in the conversation; it had truly been a long while since that had occurred.

"Incorrect," Bookman replied wisely, "All fights begin with a disagreement, but not all disagreements end in fights."

"I see. So, you had a disagreement then."

"Correct."

"Okay."

Lavi left it at that and did not pursue the topic further. It was interesting to Bookman, who knew that even a normal adult would have inquired as to what the disagreement had pertained to. But the redheaded boy questioned nothing further and their conversation lulled into a silence that was neither comfortable nor strained. To Bookman, it was just odd. He had never been so puzzled by a person before.

"I thought maybe…" Lavi began quietly after a moment, "you told Enoch about my telescope being broken…"

"Why is that?"

"No reason," he said quickly, changing the subject just as fast with a well directed question: "Have you had the time to read over my essays as of yet?"

"That I have," Bookman replied.

"And...?" Lavi asked, sounding as if he was trying not to appear too hopeful. But that excitement was still there beneath his calm inquiry and Bookman could not ignore the single eye that regarded him from his peripheral. It made him slightly uncomfortable, as the situation was now to the point where Bookman felt trapped. In an attempt to help Lavi at Dakshina's request, he had instead offered Lavi a deal out of his personal curiosity. Lavi believed Bookman to be considering him for a mere night of stargazing while Dakshina was hurt because she believed Bookman was planning on testing the boy to become his apprentice. To make matters worse, Enoch had jumped onto the bandwagon. For even more increased confusion, Bookman himself could not quite understand his motives for giving Lavi the prompts in the first place. He could have given the boy something different, but it had been _those_ topics. And why? Had it been because they were handy, right there in his bag? Or had Bookman truly believed he had seen something worthwhile in that sad, but not yet defeated, green gaze?

"Where are we going?" Bookman inquired, breaking free of his cycle of thought. Sometime during his internal debate, they had traveled to a rather depressing part of the floor. It was a dark hallway with very little light. With what light flickered from dusty lanterns on the walls, Bookman could see that the place was not put to very much use. There were a multitude of broken things in indistinguishable heaps that reached all the way to the ceiling, which gave the appearance of sagging under a great weight. Dust was heavy in the air and something stale or moldy, Bookman couldn't quite tell.

"Quite the effective change of subject," Lavi said beside him.

"As was yours before," Bookman replied easily. "Now I know that I am not the only one trying to avoid Enoch."

"If you didn't like my essays, then that's all you have to say," Lavi huffed instead of divulging more information, shifting his hold on his stack of volumes.

"I would, trust me. However that is not the case here," Bookman said. Lavi looked at him strangely, but—despite the fact that Bookman could tell he was itching to know exactly what that meant—he did not pursue the subject.

"We're in the East Annex 7, by the way."

"Quite a dreary place."

Lavi made a face that made Bookman think that he had taken the comment as a personal insult.

"It's not bad, once you get used to it," Lavi said with some attempt at cheer, as though trying to defend its miserable atmosphere.

"I doubt it," Bookman replied.

"If you follow his hall to the end, there's a lift you can take up to North Tower," Lavi informed him, somewhat coldly. Without waiting for a response, Lavi continued off on his own, most likely not believing Bookman to follow him. However the old man was consumed with a drive to discover the mystery of such an enigma and followed him. He knew not what he would be able to accomplish by doing so, but Bookman was too determined to turn back. Keeping an eye on Lavi's red hair in the dark and on the clutter beneath his feet, they soon turned down a dusty hallway. It was small enough to be considered a passageway, but perhaps a bit taller than what one might imagine. Still, it was terribly tiny and even Bookman felt a bit claustrophobic as they traveled deeper into the annex. He saw the letters and codes upon the dusty plaques on the doors, realizing that they were in a deep sub-annex of the Eastern floor: in the old areas that the Clan didn't use often.

"What are you doing down here?" Bookman asked, unable to help himself from inquiring. He was a historian after all, and it was something odd like the situation at hand that would bring up many questions. He crossed his arms to ward off the chill that began creeping in through his _haori_, looking around at the somewhat dilapidated state of the surrounding corridor. It was most probably to presume that it was not safe to be wandering around in such a strange, deserted area. Among the already hazardous amounts of dirt and dust, there were broken things such as furniture and bedding. Lying about for so long, Bookman did not even want to image what sorts of fauna had migrated from the cold temperatures outside and into the surrounding things. Lavi did not stop, even when an obstacle blocked his path. One such obstruction made him pause slightly, but it was with expert ease that he maneuvered himself over it without the use of his hands. Bookman, meanwhile, was left to contemplate if the object in question was truly what he believed it to be: a cage that had one of its bars gnawed through. The teeth marks were sharp, as if some wild animal had freed itself from the metal confides with merely the force of its jaw…

"I live here," Lavi answered easily, stepping over a broken doorframe with the grace of a dancer. His tone was casual, as if it were normal for people to live in terribly frightening, run-down annexes.

"Live here?" Bookman repeated, looking around amongst the debris. What if there was something _living_ in the piles upon piles of junk out there? It could easily capture and eat someone as small as Lavi…Something among the shadows glistened and Bookman squinted to try and see what it was. A giant web with…was that a spider? Yes, yes it was. And the spider was about the size of a small horse, which only confirmed his prior concerns. Maybe Lavi would not live long enough to suffer under Clan law: instead he would be devoured by some strange breed of creature no one had ever heard of before.

"Well, this is the only place...they really had..." Lavi said slowly before continuing in a rush: "but I'm completely grateful for it, don't get me wrong at all. It really beats living outside; especially in this weather…And Enoch was really nice to let me stay here. I mean, I _do_ have the place all to myself. Oh, and he even let me have some of his old school robes, too! Before he gave them to me, he had to burn all the nice symbols off the crest, because of my status, you know, but they're still pretty nice, even if they are a little too big for me right now. I'm hoping that I grow a little, but I…" Lavi trailed off and fell silent; Bookman could see that his shoulders had risen in embarrassment. He then realized it could have been due to the hard glare that Bookman was directing unconsciously at Lavi's back. "Um, never mind. I won't talk anymore…"

Bookman shifted his focus elsewhere, silent and with the same thoughts he had been thinking the entire time Lavi had been speaking. Although he liked to think of himself as someone who cared for no one, Bookman couldn't help but feel the situation pull at him. Somewhere inside of him, where emotion had been repressed for so long, Bookman felt anger. And pity.

The place was a dwelling Bookman would not even call fit for a dog, let alone a child.

"Enoch's kindness knows no bounds," Bookman said, too bitterly to be impartial. Even in the limited light, Bookman could see that Lavi's ears turned red at the comment and he did not answer. At the end of the main passageway, there was a right turn. It led to an even smaller hall that stretched only a short way before ending a peeling, brown wall. In comparison to the rest of the annex, it was relatively clean: free from dust and broken things, spider webs and other debris. Leaning against the wall, there was a sad-looking broom, dirty mop, and a chipped bucket that attested to the work which had gone into making the area look somewhat hospitable.

"Um…see? Like I said, it's not so bad. It just needs some fixing up…" Lavi said awkwardly to return the conversation to a safer place: where Bookman was not considering finding the East Shepherd and throttling him for such child abuse. But the child in question did not seem to mind the living arrangements, humming to himself as he put his books down on the floor and then leaned on the only door. He had to throw his shoulder into it to loosen the old lock catch, but it gave way with a creaking moan. Bookman glanced at it before looking at Lavi, who shrugged.

"It gives it character," he said, trying for some optimism. When Bookman replied with silence, Lavi scratched the back of his head and disappeared into the darkness of the room. It fell into a soft, golden glow when the redhead lit a few candles for light. After that was done, he scooped up his books again and went inside. With the illumination, Bookman could see that Lavi was placing the books in a neat stack on the floor beside another pile of organized volumes. As Lavi stood up, his head struck the messy desk shoved against the wall by the door. It shook and wobbled dangerously like it might collapse, but it stilled and remained standing. Lavi sighed in relief, rubbing the back of his neck as he began to gather up different books from his piles on the floor of the small room. And the room was indeed small. In fact, it wouldn't be accurate to call the place a room, but instead, a more appropriate term would be something like a broom cupboard. Bookman doubted that more than two people could fit in it at the same time, so he leaned against the doorframe and merely observed.

There were books stacked on every available surface; in teetering piles upon the floors. Tattered quills, chipped crystal inkwells, and sheaves of parchment were organized in orchestrated chaos upon the places not consumed with volumes. In addition to the few stubs of candles in the room, there was only one unlit gas lamp that could produce light. Even then, Bookman knew it would not be sufficient enough to see by when reading or writing. Another aspect to the room that Bookman found he did not approve us was that it had no bed and no closet to hold a futon. Bookman wondered where Lavi slept.

"Your essays were very profound," Bookman said when the silence had extended for too long a period of time. Lavi paused for a moment in his gathering to look over at him.

"Um, thank you," he answered, scratching at the eye patch band over the bridge of his nose in a somewhat nervous gesture. He quickly went back to what he was doing, perhaps procuring a work by Goethe a little too hastily. After also grasping onto Darwin's _Origin of Species_, Lavi turned to regard him with a slightly suspicious expression. "I sense a 'but' coming," Lavi said, putting _Faust_ under his arm.

"_However_," Bookman began.

"Clever," Lavi gave him.

"However," Bookman continued, "I cannot uphold my end of our contract." With Enoch and Dakshina in their current moods, Bookman had no doubt that they would not permit of the excursion, even if he informed them that the essays had been purely for the purpose of stargazing. "I apologize." Even still, Lavi's facial expression did not change. If anything, he just appeared to be a little more tired than usual.

"I thought not," Lavi said, securing a rather battered copy of Milton's _Paradise Lost_ from atop a stack of books sitting on a stool near the desk. "It's okay though. I've learned not to put too much confidence in adults." He did not stop collecting the books despite his disappointment, finding a copy of Machiavelli's _The Prince_ under a few scrolls on the desk.

"Nice to know that you think so highly of us," Bookman replied.

"I've been disappointed too many times to think anything other than that," Lavi answered, as he took up his new, smaller stack of books, "no offense."

"None taken."

Lavi did not say anything further, blowing out the candles as an indicator he was through in his search. Stepping back to allow him room to pass, Bookman waited for the child to exit the darkened room. Lavi closed the creaking door behind him and led the way down the hall and back towards the main Annex. Bookman followed, watching as the redhead navigated through the wreckage with expert skill once more. When they had emerged from the sub-annex, Bookman stopped upon seeing movement once more. Peering through the darkness, he was able to identify the source: the huge, horse-sized spider from earlier was perched upon its gigantic web. It seemed to be watching them closely as they passed.

"Don't mind Sheila. She just likes to look impressive," Lavi said, nodding his head at the giant arachnid on their left.

"Sheila," Bookman repeated, warily eyeing the creature.

"That's what Bartleby named her," Lavi explained, shifting his hold on his volumes. "You see, when they started their research with reptiles and arachnids in the science division, Sheila was one of the first test subjects. After they had gotten all the venom they needed out of her, Bartleby let her loose out here because he didn't want to have to euthanize her. Of course, it was a sort of a nasty shock to me when I first got here. Wasn't expecting it, I guess…"

Bookman doubted that even if someone were prepared for it, they would never truly be ready to see such a thing.

"But she won't hurt anyone," continued Lavi, as they stepped over some obstacles in the path, and Shelia disappeared into the depths behind them. Bookman doubted if this was true, but Lavi explained further: "She's so old that she's blind and one of her legs is slightly crooked. Plus, Sheila doesn't have any venom anyway, so she's really just a spectacle and not a threat."

After that, nothing more was said until they arrived at the lifts, though Bookman kept his eye open for any more creatures that the scientists over in East might have let loose in the jungle of rejected remains. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary—or more out of the ordinary than what was accumulated there—and stopped at the end of the hall, where two elevators sat stationary and silent. The one on the left had its doors propped open with a piece of plywood; the one on the right was normal in appearance, and Lavi called it up with the press of a button.

"This one goes up," Lavi said, pointing to the one in front of him on the right-hand side, "of course, that's after you go down to South."

"You have to go down to go up?" Bookman asked, looking at the lift with suspicion. Perhaps it would have been better to take his chances back in East, where Dakshina and Enoch were most likely still prowling around. At least in that case, he might not meet a rather untimely end at the bottom of the elevator shaft.

"Yeah, but don't worry; it's safe," Lavi assured him.

"I'm sure," Bookman said, his tone slightly darkened with doubt.

"It's better than that one," Lavi said, pointing at the one next to it. The lamp inside the open elevator flickered ominously a pale, greenish gray. "It screams at you to get out once you're inside. I think it's haunted, but people around here say there are no such things as ghosts." Bookman said nothing in reply and when the lift arrived, the both of them got inside. They were just as quiet as the lift began to descend toward South. Compared to the others within the mountain, it was slower and a lot more rickety. Above them, the gas lamp swung gently, casting light back and forth across the interior car.

"So, if you could have…" Lavi began quietly, not looking at Bookman, but instead at the top of his pile of books, "…if you could have been able to fulfill your part of our contract…?"

"I would have upheld it," Bookman replied without hesitating. He only felt a slight twinge of guilt for going back on his word, but tried not to meditate upon it. If he did, Bookman knew that he would only regret his choices.

"Okay," Lavi said, and that was all. He looked unconvinced, having been disappointed too many times in his young life, but added nothing else to their conversation. Shifting his books into one arm, Lavi picked at the gauze bandage on his cheek which covered his burn from the incident in East a few days ago. An awkward quiet settled over them, where Bookman tried not to berate himself for disappointing the child. It had been a long time since he had felt such an emotion, where he believed that he had let someone down who had been relying on him. But he also told himself that he had not truly promised Lavi anything, as it had been a conditional contract. The guilt only came knowing that Lavi was so capable and yet, was cursed into such a terrible fate. He was only a child, after all. Bookman should not have cared so much.

Because a Bookman had no need of a heart.

But as the elevator continued downwards at a snail's pace, Bookman could not stop himself from looking closer. He could tell that the boy had suffered and starved, probably for the better half of his years, judging from his small, underfed stature. It was only more solidified in Bookman's mind when he considered Lavi's essay pertaining to pain and suffering; Bookman knew there was no way that someone could grasp the subject in such a way without experiencing it firsthand.

He attempted to stop his train of thought. It inspired too many feelings within himself. Not to mention, it made Bookman feel as if he were evaluating Lavi as a prospective candidate for his apprenticeship. He once again had to admonish himself for even thinking such thoughts. No matter how much potential Lavi had, Dakshina and Enoch would never allow it; the Clan would also be against him due to Lavi's branded status. It would be too difficult to even reverse such standing for Lavi to be considered. Not to mention, Lavi was entirely too young for the position. And Bookman was not patient enough to raise a child, no matter how qualified Lavi might be for the position.

Then why, Bookman wondered, as he watched Lavi exit the lift without so much as a backward glance, was he considering the boy to be the perfect option?

**pqpq**

Revised 11/11/2009

Dhampir72


	7. Lavi's Interview

**Chapter 7: Lavi's Interview**

Interviews began.

Bookman selected the top six students based upon their essays: the original five plus another that he considered capable from West. Originally, he had planned a second round of essays to determine the three students he would interview. However, he had not been impressed with the writing and decided to skip the subsequent prompts in order to spare himself some pain. Besides, there were many things one could learn about a person through their writing, but one could learn so much more by social observation and interaction. They were the best of the worst, truly, but, if their intelligence in person was anything beyond what was on paper, then perhaps things would work out fine. However, Bookman knew that sometimes things weren't always that easy.

At the beginning of that week, Bookman sent out letters to all twelve of the applicants: thanking six for their time and effort though it didn't quite do the job while the other six received a scroll of parchment with a date and time for their exclusive interviews in East Library. When the interview dates began, Bookman made sure to select an isolated corner of the library complete with a round table and two comfortable chairs. There, Bookman knew they would not be disturbed and it was in this privacy that he conducted interviews with the chosen six.

Truly, Bookman had never experienced a worse three days.

The first was such a wreck with nerves that Bookman wondered if he was in a state of ill health, as he kept jittering so badly that the table actually rattled underneath him. Though he was smart, he was not very articulate (due to nerves or not, Bookman couldn't tell), stumbling over his sentences or using the incorrect word in the wrong context. It was not a very impressive display, and Bookman did not consider himself a very patient person. However, he was gracious enough to thank the lad and send him on his twittering way.

The second was also nervous, though not as badly as the first. He could answer questions easily and intelligently enough, but he also smiled and nodded a little too much when he spoke. He was capable, but Bookman wondered if he could tolerate his presence for _the rest of his life_. For some reason, Bookman highly doubted that his patience would be able to keep him sane for a long duration of time, and sent the gangly boy and his smiles away.

In comparison to the first two, the third could only be described as arrogant. He was not nervous, which was a good thing, because Bookman wondered if he could truly handle another twitching person. However, this one was narrow-minded, cocky, and loud. He was definitely not one to blend into the crowd and observe in an unbiased and _quiet_ way, so he was knocked off the list fairly quickly.

Out of all of them, the fourth was the most impressive Bookman had seen all day. He was not nervous, but instead naturally quiet. That, however, did not conceal the fact that he was bright, though a little on the slow side when it came to speaking aloud. He was open to new things, cautiously observant, and able to answer all of Bookman's questions well. All of the qualities he displayed were imperative to the apprenticeship position. In his mind, he made a mental note to remember the boy as one of the best choices.

However, that did not change the fact that interviews had to continue, and so Bookman had to sit through two more. The fifth was the youngest of the applicants, only about fourteen. He was bright and quick, though with an edge that Bookman found to be a little too eager. Bookman knew that he was young enough that, with enough discipline, he could grow out of it. However, Bookman had to think about if he really wanted an apprentice that _young_, as his ideal age was closer to twenty. Not wanting to completely exclude someone based on that stipulation alone, Bookman decided to also keep number five in mind as well.

After the fourth and fifth interviews, Bookman should have realized that his good fortune would have run out: the sixth was a huge disappointment. It seemed that choosing the final candidate from West had not been the best idea, as number six was rather slow and dull-witted. He didn't seem to understand Bookman's questions or what the purpose was behind some of the deeper, more thought-provoking topics. In fact, Bookman would wager to say that number six had no idea why he was at the interview in the first place. Needless to say, it was not impressive in the slightest.

In the end, Bookman chalked it up to not entirely a waste of time, even though it sure felt like it. None of them seemed up-to-par with what Bookman was looking for, though some possessed several of the qualities he had been seeking. It left him aggravated. Bookman was looking for the person who would take his title once he was gone, but not one of them seemed to jump out spectacularly. Because of this, Bookman wanted a cigarette badly, but knew that Enoch would kill him if he lit up with so many old volumes around. Instead, he was left to mentally review each applicant, wondering how on Earth he was to make a decision, especially when they all seemed so…

…unimpressive.

"And here I thought you were doing something interesting…"

Bookman was broken out of his thoughts when he heard those words. Glancing up, he saw red hair and a curious green eye peeking at him from around a shelf containing tomes from the Italian Renaissance. Lavi studied him for a moment, then the table and empty chair; he looked a little disappointed to not have stumbled across something a bit more remarkable than an old man sitting alone.

"And why would you think such a thing?" Bookman asked.

"Well, I saw a bunch of people going in and out for the past few days…not to mention that I saw Dakshina prowling up and down the Greek Philosophy section, frequently looking into this corner. So, I don't know…" Lavi said, shrugging, "I guess with all those things considered in addition to the secrecy might allude to something interesting."

"I see. And how did you notice all of these things if you were not spying yourself?" Bookman inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"I was looking for _The Tale of Genji_," Lavi answered innocently.

"A likely story," Bookman said.

"Although it is a very true tale, I'll have you know. And had you any idea that there isn't a single copy of it in this library?"

"Shame. I was under the impression that World Literature was kept in West Library."

"Hmm, wasn't as believable as I thought, then."

"Unfortunately not."

Lavi sighed and came from around the bookshelf, much like a cat cautiously making its way towards something it was unsure of. When Bookman did not say anything to him, or send him off with a glare, Lavi took it as an invitation and seated himself in the empty chair on the other side of the table. Up close, Bookman could see that in place of where the bandage on Lavi's cheek had been two days ago, there was a shiny mark signifying that his burn was towards the end of the healing process. It made Bookman truly wonder for a moment just what those people in East did all day. Why were they were breeding fire-breathing reptiles and how on Earth did those the chickens keep popping up all over the place?

"So Dakshina finally left," Bookman said, not inquired, as he glanced over at the Greek Philosophy section. He saw no shadow lurking among the shelves, so he presumed that they were alone.

"She stalked off a little while ago. Probably to go see Enoch," Lavi replied.

"That is a dangerous combination."

"You know it. I like my limbs, so I stayed out of her way."

"Wise of you."

Lavi leaned back in his chair.

"How did your interviews go?" he asked in a conversational tone. Judging from the way Lavi's lips were slightly upturned, he already knew how they had gone.

"The one so innocently looking for classic Japanese literature seems to know a lot."

"I really was. I just got a little sidetracked when I saw people like Shaan heading into the library. I didn't know that he could read."

"People can surprise you at times."

"Did they surprise you?" Lavi asked. He smirked, but checked it before it could linger too long.

"Quite," Bookman answered.

"That terrible?" he inquired. Bookman did not reply, as he would not vocalize how much of a near disaster it had been. By doing so would only make his problems with the candidates that more official, which was something he did not want. It was bad enough that none of them were quite what he was looking for and even more disappointing was that he was mostly locked into those six choices. A fleeting thought passed his mind as he observed the redheaded boy across from him, wherein Bookman entertained the notion of Lavi becoming his apprentice.

How foolish.

"Well in that case, why don't you interview me?" Lavi asked, his voice nothing but serious. It was almost as if the boy had read his mind and his directness caught Bookman slightly off guard. However, he was able to keep his face in the perfect expression of neutrality.

"And why would I do such a thing?" Bookman asked.

"Well, you gave me those essays and they were the same ones you gave to all twelve of those candidates who are competing for the position of your apprentice. Not to mention, you said my essays were profound, didn't you? So, don't I deserve _my_ interview?"

"How did you come by all of this information?" Bookman asked suspiciously.

"I have my ways."

"Curious."

"So, do I get my interview or not?"

"I suppose so."

Lavi raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms across his chest.

"You're humoring me, aren't you?" Lavi asked.

"Indubitably."

"Well, I would have thought that I earned it. I mean, you sort of owe me for not being able to fulfill your part of our arrangement. I think it's only fair."

"Do you?" Bookman asked.

"I do," Lavi replied evenly.

"You are mistaken. First of all, _you_ have earned nothing of the sort. I merely expressed my gratitude to you for your essays because it proved to me that all intelligent thought has not completely died out. Secondly, _I_ owe _you_ nothing. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was not able to fulfill my duty regarding our contract. However, since the entire concord was circumstantial to begin with, I am therefore not responsible for the negative outcome," Bookman finished coldly.

"Yes, all of that may be true, but you did say so long as my essays proved impressive, you would fulfill your end of the bargain. And, according to you, they passed that test. These circumstances you speak of are of no importance to me, but I believe that if they prohibited you from keeping up your end of the contract, then you should at least have the decency to try to amend for it," Lavi replied in an equally icy tone.

They stared each other down for a few moments in chilly silence.

"Fine, then," Bookman said, won over by Lavi's articulate argument and his unwavering gaze. Lavi did not show pride at winning Bookman over, and instead leaned forward a little with an intent expression.

Bookman began:

"Tell me about yourself."

"What?" Lavi asked, blinking in surprise. He obviously hadn't expected Bookman to be so vague when inquiring after information.

"This is an interview; do at least try to answer the questions when they are posed to you," Bookman said, in a bit more of an edgy tone than before. He wanted to see what the boy was capable of and this was his chance.

Perhaps the pieces of the puzzle would begin to make sense.

"Fine," Lavi snapped back. "My name is Lavi—just Lavi—and I'm the, what you believe to be, _unfortunate_ resident of East Sub-Annex 7. My permanent status at Clan headquarters is at a stagnant low of Bound and denied Furtherance. I can speak Italian and Spanish fluently, read Latin and Sanskrit easily, and I can understand the Chinese dialects of Mandarin and Cantonese, along with Shanghainese, fairly well. I like physics and mathematics, but not chemistry, and I truly enjoy astronomy and ancient history texts. Also, I hate James Fenimore Cooper because all of his writing is _gou shi_ and I think I might be a sadist because the _Inferno_ of Dante's _The Divine Comedy_ made me laugh. In addition, I'm double jointed, a proud agnostic, and the only thing I've been able to transmute with Alchemy was a broken pocket watch."

"That's quite a list," Bookman said. And truly it was. For Lavi to have learned so many things within the course of only half a year of schooling, perhaps he truly could have been a genius like Dakshina assumed.

"I do my best," Lavi answered.

"Tell me about your faults now."

"My faults? Let's see...well, I'm pretty short, not to mention partially blind… I have a bad habit of staying up for way too many days at a time without sleeping. Also, I end up destroying quills pretty fast because I bite the ends of them so that the feathers fray and fall apart. Hm, well, I'm really bad at Alchemy, no matter how much Manas and Ganesa try to teach me the practice of it. I guess I'm just not talented in that area, but that's alright. I don't like _wasabi_ because it's _way_ too hot. And I really am freaked out by cottage cheese. There's just something gross about it that I can't figure out. Maybe it's a texture thing… Oh, and I'm prone to strange accidents also. I think it's because I'm dead clumsy due to this stupid patch…_and_ on top of that, I'm severely navigationally challenged."

"Navigationally challenged," Bookman repeated.

"It's a nice way of saying that I could get lost inside a wet paper bag," Lavi replied with a shrug. "What can I say? I can't read maps well for some reason."

"I see," Bookman said. He was pleased to see that Lavi was being honest. Most of the time, people would gladly talk about themselves in a good, positive light so that others did not think less of them. In other cases, people would talk about themselves in such a negative way that it bordered on asking for sympathy, so that others would pity them. But being able to both praise one's good qualities and recognize one's faults in a balanced way was something that very few people possessed. In fact, the candidates that he had just interviewed had lacked this quality: they could think of all the good things that they had done, but no true faults with themselves. And since people were human, they were not faultless. Lavi understood the matter, perhaps without even knowing that such a struggle existed. His natural scales were balanced evenly.

Perfectly.

"And now for a different sort of question. Call it applied knowledge, if you will," Bookman began: "Let us say that there was a dispute between two neighbors. They were fighting over something: wealth, power, land, it truly doesn't matter. But let us say that they were both seeking the same thing. One of these two said they would use their winnings for good and the other's intentions for it were evil. Which side would you choose?"

Lavi looked up at the ceiling for a moment in thought.

"Well," Lavi said carefully, "the definitions of good and evil are relative, aren't they? I mean…there isn't just good and there isn't just evil. After all, we don't live in a black and white world; there exist shades of gray—different degrees of good and evil—within ourselves. There isn't a line or a clear distinction between the two. They blur and are therefore indistinguishable. So when you ask whose side I would choose, I can only ask: what side could there be?"

It was a fantastically simple reply and yet a spectacularly complex answer.

"So in essence, you believe neutrality is the best option?"

"Indeed. Why would I get involved in such a dispute? I did not begin it. I have no desire to become involved with it. And in the end, it doesn't affect me. So why on Earth would I take part in such a fiasco?"

"What if the outcome of said dispute did affect you in some way?" Bookman asked.

"Let it come," Lavi said with a shrug. "For better or for worse, you can't really stop it from raining, can you? If people truly want to do something—fight, even go to war, over something—then they'll go about it any way that they can. The outcome is inevitable and unavoidable, so there is no reason for me to become involved in any way."

"Interesting," Bookman said, and that was all. In his mind, he mulled over the impressive answer. For a child to understand the concept of human greed was extraordinary and his motives for leading an unbiased life were justifiably brilliant. The others, when posed the same question, leaned towards fighting on the side of good against evil, although adding that (if possible) they would remain neutral. They had been coached well: that the role and purpose of a Bookman was to remain impartial. However, true feelings shine through at times, and all of them had shown a preference towards the greater good. But Lavi did not.

Curious.

"How do you feel about the human race?" Bookman asked. From what he had learned about the boy and observed first hand, Bookman believed that Lavi had a strange relationship with humanity. People had used him: been cruel to him and abusive. Even when someone wore a mask of kindness, he had been slapped with life-altering consequences. Was it possible that Lavi had little to no affection for humanity? Bookman had seen Lavi display coldness; he had seen the redhead across from him take out another boy without blinking. But he had also seen that boy behind the mask smile so brightly…Lavi was a master of masks and emotion. He could be anyone; he could hide everything he felt. Those qualities were what he could not find in any of the other applicants.

Those qualities were absolutely essential to _be_ a Bookman.

"Humans are a feeble species," Lavi replied somewhat darkly. "They're motivated by greed, lust, material things, power… Seeking these things, they only create wars and breed destruction. They are parasitic to this planet: raping it of natural resources while they pollute the air, kill animals, and decimate plant life. Wrapped up in their selfishness, they have no qualms in destroying the environment as they seek their own comforts and pleasures. They take and take and take, but never give back."

It was true. All of what Lavi said was the naked truth.

"Are you an exception?" Bookman asked.

That was the real question.

"Absolutely not," Lavi answered, shaking his head, "even though I wish I could be above such things. But, it's a part of being human, and that affects us all. Because of that, I feel selfishness and want just as much as the next person. I know that the books that I so love to read are only here because humans cut down trees and used them to make paper. This place where I now live is a mountain that has been broken down and bent to human will and convenience. I see how these things, which we take from the planet, are for human benefit and survival. However, I can also see how these qualities of human life affect our planet. Humans believe that everything is renewable; that we are the dominant species on this planet and that everything should benefit us. They don't realize that everything will eventually break down until there's nothing left if they keep going down this path. And even still, would they do anything about it? After all, everyone could have this knowledge if they would look, but many ignore it. They don't want to think of a world where everything isn't what they want it to be."

"Very true," Bookman said.

If only Lavi wasn't so young, he would be what Bookman considered the ideal apprentice.

"I have one more question for you," Bookman informed him. Lavi looked at him expectantly, but not nervously. In fact, during the entire interview, he did not appear anxious in the slightest. When Bookman considered it further, he realized that Lavi had never been intimidated in his presence before.

"If you could do one thing in the entire world, what would you do?" Bookman asked.

"I'd write a book."

The answer was immediate; so immediate that Lavi had not even given thought to the subject. Or perhaps he had thought about that same question many times before, which accounted for Lavi's quick reply.

"On what subject?"

Lavi leaned back into his chair and gave a small smile.

"On how to fix a telescope."

How simple.

**pqpq**

Revised 11/12/2009

Dhampir72


	8. False Pretenses

**Chapter 8: False Pretenses**

"What is going on here?!"

Bookman had no sooner been impressed by Lavi's mature answers when that startled cry made the two of them look up. It was the two people he had not wished to see for another few days. Dakshina seemed to be in more of a right state than the last time he had seen her. If anything, she had gone pale at the sight of Lavi sitting across from Bookman and her eyes were alight with anger. Enoch, usually the kinder of the two, did not appear any less pleased with the fact that Bookman and Lavi were in the same place.

"We were chatting," Bookman said.

Dakshina was so furious that Bookman could almost feel the rage pulsing off her in waves.

"Lavi, go to your room," Dakshina said, her voice wavering dangerously. The Indian woman looked as if she was trying to keep herself composed, but Bookman could tell that she was beginning to lose that battle. Her whole frame was shaking with anger; the finger pointing towards the door was trembling and the other hand at her side clenched itself into a tight fist. Enoch, although in a terrible mood himself, took a step back from the seething woman in fear.

"But—" Lavi began to protest. Bookman saw him glance at Enoch for help, but the East Shepherd refused to return it. The redhead must have known better than to seek aid from Bookman, because he did not even look at the old man beside him.

"I said go!" Dakshina's pitch became a little higher, although she was still trying to control her anger. Bookman knew that they were all treading in dangerous waters without a life vest just by the way her voice cracked at certain syllables. Even still, Lavi didn't look like he was going to back down, at least not without answers as to why he was being sent away. That was not very smart, even if Lavi did have the right to question his dismissal.

"What did I—"

"Get out!"

"But, Dakshi—"

"LEAVE, ROHAN!"

A terrible silence followed her outburst.

Bookman observed as Lavi's expression turned dark and Dakshina's slipped from angry to horrified at what she had done. Enoch looked back and forth between the two of them, his discontent transforming into worry. Bookman knew that the East Shepherd did not know the entire story—or why Dakshina's words could inspire such a reaction—but he was sure that Enoch could understand how terrible the situation was going to become if it went any further.

But it was not going to get any further.

Lavi slipped out of his seat silently and left. He said nothing and only cast one cold look over his shoulder before he disappeared from sight. They did not speak until his footsteps left the library and echoed down the hall. Bookman knew that Dakshina felt ashamed, just by the way she was looking at the floor with such despair.

"You…you can't…take him," Dakshina said, her voice breaking. Her tone still held some anger, but it was not quite as strong as before. It sounded more desperate than anything.

"You said yourself, Dakshina, that you killed that boy," Bookman replied, coldly and truthfully. "Because of that, he has no future here, so give him one. One in replacement for that life you took."

For a moment, Bookman thought that Dakshina might hit him for those words. But the trembling hand that raised itself into the air was stilled by Enoch's before it could move any further.

"Let him go, Shina," Enoch murmured quietly. But even as he said this, his expression was not pleased. Her shoulders slumped in defeat and Bookman could see that she was crying freely.

"Do…what you want…" she said.

And Bookman left.

**pqpq**

Bookman did not believe in luck.

However, he came to the conclusion that no other state of being could be used to describe his fortune after his confrontation with Dakshina, which meant that he still retained his limbs and had complete function of said body parts. He would have thought that there would have been more fight in her, as there always had been. But judging from her reaction after the slipup of mistaken identity concerning Lavi, Bookman wagered to guess that the incident had shaken her of all resolve and resulted in her final, though half-hearted, blessing. That was why, in the end, he remained whole after speaking with her.

Still, Bookman acknowledged that such an exchange must have been difficult for both parties, especially when Dakshina said that name. It was the name—the identity—that she had selfishly forced Lavi to become so that she could lessen the guilt she felt concerning Rohan's untimely death. It must have hurt Dakshina to remember her mistake that had ended Lavi's future. On the other hand, it must have hurt Lavi to know that Dakshina couldn't see past her own lie to look at whoever he truly was.

In Bookman's opinion, it was all unfortunate folly.

**pqpq**

Bookman finally knew what he wanted.

However, when Bookman wanted something, it was never an easy task. In the present case, the only way to get what he wanted was to talk to the one person he despised most. And Bookman knew that while talking to said person, he had to be both polite and respectful. The Chancellor seemed to know that Bookman was after something and it was apparent that he was not going to give it up so easily. Instead, he used it to his annoyingly superior advantage by toying with Bookman for the better part of an hour with meaningless chatter.

"Tea, Bookman?" the Chancellor asked, somewhat jovially.

"No, thank you," Bookman replied, already irritated. He was contemplating walking away and forgetting about the entire thing because of the level of difficulty. The Chancellor sensed this, Bookman knew, and he vowed that he would not let the old git win. And when tea was served, Bookman had no choice but to partake in ceremonial courtesy, keeping him rooted to his cushion. Despite this resolution to get what he wanted from the old man, it was a very stiff few moments in which Bookman glared harshly over the rim of his teacup and the Chancellor gloated silently with taunting smiles.

"I come here on business," Bookman said, after he had finished his first cup. He did not want to engage in more trivial conversation regarding the weather or certain fabrics used for robes or the type of wood of which the floor was constructed.

"You've found an apprentice, then?" the Chancellor asked. He knew just how to ask questions, which made Bookman wonder if perhaps the Chancellor had heard whispers of the situation through headquarters. It would not be the first time rumors and idle chatter had reached his overly large ears.

"In a sense," Bookman replied, tip-toeing around the subject. He debated on how exactly to approach the topic from the bad angle the Chancellor had place him in with such an inquiry.

"In what sense?" the Chancellor nettled. He might have raised an eyebrow in addition to that question, but there was so much hair in that general area that Bookman couldn't be sure.

"I am interested in obtaining a certain youth. However…" Bookman said, letting his words trail off purposefully. It was the part he had been dreading; the part where Bookman had to ask for a _favor_. And it was not just any favor, but a rather large favor. He knew it would be _painfully_ embarrassing, but Bookman had thought hard upon the subject. Although it would hurt his pride, the ends would justify the means and it would all be worth it.

He hoped, anyway.

"However…?" the Chancellor prompted.

_The old coot_ Bookman could not help but think to himself. The Chancellor knew. Or at least he thought he knew. That in itself annoyed Bookman to the point where he felt like leaving once again.

"However," Bookman continued, "he does not meet certain, shall we say, _criteria_."

"How so?"

"Would it matter so much if I told you this youth is the ideal choice for the position?"

"It would matter what criteria this youth does not meet."

"Even if I were to say that he is the most qualified and the most impressive candidate I have had the opportunity to interview?"

"Even so."

_Arse_ Bookman grumbled mentally. The Chancellor was making this even more difficult for Bookman and he knew this. He was having fun drawing it out, waiting for Bookman to ask him for that favor he most likely would not grant.

"Which youth are you speaking of?" the Chancellor asked, when Bookman did not rise to his bait.

"That Archive Master Dakshina's charge: Lavi," Bookman replied, unable to find any way to prolong the mystery any longer.

Silence fell as the Chancellor stroked his beard in a pretense of thoughtfulness.

"Well, I'm sorry I cannot help you," the Chancellor said after a moment, sounding not at all sympathetic. "Even if the boy was of age and actually enrolled here, he has both Bound and Denied Furtherance status. There is nothing I can do about it."

"Except reverse it," Bookman said, trying not to grit his teeth when he replied. It was becoming more difficult than he first thought.

"To do that, I would need the express permission of all four Shepherds who Bound and Denied him," the Chancellor answered. He was smug and had every right to be. It was a known fact the four Shepherds never agreed on anything, just as people never completely agree on anything due to their differences. The former decisions of Bound and Denied Furtherance were based on majority vote, but to reverse them, the Chancellor was asking for a unanimous resolution. It was like asking for snow in the middle of summer and he knew it would be impossible to achieve.

That bastard.

**pqpq**

The next day, Bookman found himself not even a step outside his room in North Tower before he was accosted by two redheaded twins. They appeared out of the shadows like two thieves in the night. It was strange because they did not look as jovial as usual.

"Bookman," they said, in complete seriousness despite their simultaneous speech.

"Manas. Ganesa," Bookman replied, not quite knowing which one was which.

"We need to ask you a few questions," said one of them.

"Manas, this isn't an interrogation," Ganesa said.

"What are you talking about? Of course it is," Manas replied hotly. He turned suddenly, and rather violently, towards Bookman and inched uncomfortably close to him. Their faces were barely an inch apart. So close, Bookman could count each freckle upon his right cheek—thirty-four to be precise—and could see each individual red eyelash that framed his glaring, brown eyes. "All we wanted to know is if Lavi was with you yesterday during the afternoon."

"Between 1200 and 1300 hours," Ganesa added gently, hoping to be helpful with a more precise time.

"Yes, he was," Bookman replied, pushing Manas out of his personal space with the tip of his finger. The redheaded twin moved back with a wince at the pressure to the sensitive point in his chest, understanding that he was not to get so close again.

"Truly?" Ganesa asked, in a voice that signified he wanted to clarify.

"We spoke in East Library at around that time exactly yesterday," Bookman answered in more detail. "Both Enoch and Dakshina were in our presence as well if you require some sort of testimony."

The twins exchanged a dark look between them.

"So, there wasn't any way that Lavi could have been anywhere else but with you at that time," Manas clarified, crossing his arms over his chest. Bookman could not understand his aggression or why it seemed as if he was being questioned in an ongoing police investigation.

"Give or take a few moments, I think not," Bookman replied, watching as another knowing, stormy glance passed between the twins. Bookman wondered what this was all about.

"I venture to guess that something happened?" Bookman offered, when it seemed like the twins were not going to divulge any information on the subject.

"You bet something happened," Manas snapped, glowering at nothing in particular, his anger returned.

"Manas, stop it," Ganesa said. His twin huffed and looked away, clearly upset by something that Bookman did not understand.

"And said incident is?" Bookman asked, when it appeared as if the two of them were hesitant to speak upon the subject further.

"Let's just say that Lavi got into some trouble last night," Ganesa began. Beside him, Manas snorted. It was the first time that Bookman had not seen their expressions look the same. Something must have truly happened for such a discrepancy in the time-space continuum to have occurred.

"Trouble," Bookman repeated, looking from one to the other.

"That's a really nice way of saying Rong got his hands on the kid and beat the shit out of him," Manas said.

"Manas!" his twin pleaded, for what, Bookman was not quite sure of.

"Well, it's the truth! Rong throttled him so badly that Lavi barely knew his name this morning," Manas said. Bookman knew that Manas was not far from the truth. Rong had a cruel side, and that side of him was let out more than it should be because he was granted the power to oversee all disciplinary actions within the Clan. With that title, he was given unchallenged and unrivaled power when it came to dealing with punishments for those who broke Clan law. It didn't matter if the person was eight or eighty-eight; Rong would lay it on the rule-breaker just the same without regard or discretion to size or age.

Thinking back to one of his first discussions with the child, Bookman could recall that Lavi mentioned having been caught by Rong and punished by him severely. It was then that Lavi said he would never do something like that again, because he had learned his lesson that first time. Bookman said as much to the twins about it.

"We know about that," Manas said.

"That time, though, he really _did_ do something," Ganesa added, "but he didn't know any better. He'd been slapped with such a status and basically told that he'd never be allowed to leave. Poor thing didn't know what to do. I'd try to get out myself if I were in that position…but afterwards, Lavi said that he would never try it again. One beating from Rong and I don't blame him…"

"But this time, it's not only improbable, it's flat-out _impossible_," said Manas, with some of his usual flair creeping back into his voice.

"See, we're making a timeline of yesterday," Ganesa said, pulling out a piece of parchment to show Bookman. It was a messy timeline that had obviously been written while the two of them had been walking around and questioning people. But it was still legible, nonetheless, and rather detailed.

"And now—" said Manas, pulling out his quill.

"Thanks to you—" continued Ganesa, producing an inkwell.

"He has a complete list of alibis," they said, much like their usual selves. Manas finished the line with an enthusiastic whip of his pen. With that finished, Bookman could see that Lavi did have a very comprehensive timeline of alibis. According to the data, Lavi had been in South Library with Keeper Abel for the duration of the early morning. Towards the afternoon, he had been under the spying eye of Dakshina. At noon, he had been with Bookman undergoing his interview. And afterwards, Lavi had been in East Wing, collecting a whole list of witnesses who placed him there at that time: Hans, Bartleby, and Phineas of the Apothecary, Manas and Ganesa in Alchemy, and Jeza in secretarial.

"So there was no way—"

"Absolutely none—"

"That Lavi could have done what he's being accused of," they finished. The two of them looked a little more like themselves for a moment: proud and a little cunning as well.

"Has he denied it?" Bookman asked.

"Denied what?" asked Ganesa.

"What he has been accused of," Bookman clarified.

"Well…he hasn't quite said anything about it…" Ganesa shifted uncomfortably as he pocketed his inkwell.

"It doesn't matter anyways; we have proof now," Manas said, indicating their timeline.

"But do you not think there is a reason for his silence?" Bookman asked; Ganesa suddenly looked worried.

"He _was_ really upset yesterday about something…you don't think that he really—"

"No, he didn't," Manas said firmly, with a positive shake of his head.

"Are you sure? Maybe he won't say anything because…" Ganesa trailed off, his prior excitement turning into skepticism.

"Well, let's see," Manas said sarcastically, miming the action of deep thinking by grasping onto his chin and looking skywards, "I would think that after being nearly killed by a _xiong-meng de kuang-ren_, maybe he doesn't want to talk about the actual circumstances."

"You think…he's scared of Rong?" Ganesa asked.

"Don't you think that's acceptable after the guy almost beat the life from the poor kid?" Manas snapped angrily. The twins glared at each other for a moment in stony silence. Bookman watched as Ganesa stepped down without moving or saying a word. His skepticism had been met and overcome, replaced only with determination to prove Lavi's innocence.

"How bad is it?" Bookman asked. Ganesa looked at Bookman, his expression surprised, but also guilty, before he turned his face away. Manas put his hands into the navy sleeves of his Clan-issued _haori_ and frowned.

"Let's just say Lavi's back matches my outfit," Manas said bitterly.

And it was not out of any unusual concern for the boy, but Bookman ended up accompanying Manas and Ganesa down to East in order to see the damage for himself first hand.

**pqpq**

Upon entering Manas and Ganesa's office, Bookman found himself struggling with the strange sense of déjà vu. It looked strangely like a certain Shepherd's office in all its spectacular disarray.

"Home sweet home," Ganesa said, quite obviously trying to lighten the mood. A whole number of strange instruments littered the surfaces of desks and filing cabinets in addition to several breeds of plants that hung in pots or perched dangerously on the edges of high shelves. Papers and books made fantastic leaning towers in random places and looked more like artwork than a mess. Diagrams of transmutation circles and strange symbols were taped to the walls, along with a giant poster of a periodic table of elements that appeared as if it had been written on one too many times with permanent ink. There was the strange smell of sulfur and lime in the air that mingled with the scent of live chickens. And speaking of chickens, there seemed to be quite a few of them wandering around the twins' office: clucking and meandering around their feet.

"_Ai__ ya_! They got out again!" Manas grumbled, shepherding the chickens out the office door before closing it shut with a slam behind him. Bookman could only keep wondering what had been plaguing his thoughts for several weeks: where did the birds keep coming from? In addition to that question, Bookman also wondered why it was Manas was in such a foul mood when his brother was not. Perhaps they were not as similar as they first appeared; Ganesa glanced at Bookman apologetically for his brother's disposition, but did not say anything aloud.

"Goramn chickens…" Manas muttered, kicking aside feathers and pages upon the floor as he stalked about the office. He managed to knock loose an impressive pile of tomes from their bridge-like formation over a stack of photocopied works with his angry footsteps and he did not bother to straighten them afterwards. Ganesa visibly cringed at the mess, but the commotion did not rouse a complaint out of him. Instead, it alerted someone else of their presence.

"Finally, you two came back!"

The exclamation came from behind a rather large filing cabinet in the corner that rattled quite a bit and had both smoke and flames issuing from the second drawer. Bookman did not want to know what caused the phenomena and so he stayed clear of it. Rather, he followed the twins through a narrow space between their desks and to the back of the room. Behind the cabinet, they found Jeza in front of an alcove, where a sofa piled high with papers and books had been crammed into the small space. She still looked irritated—as she had all the other times Bookman had seen her—and when she turned around, her hardened glare fell upon the twins. Underneath her, Bookman realized that her seat was a glass tub that contained some kind of ugly gnome-like creature. It made a rude gesture at all of them before going back to hide under the giant rock in the middle of the tank.

"Why? Is Lavi okay?" Manas asked quickly, looking worried. Ganesa synched with his twin, his face becoming a literal a mirror image of Manas' expression.

"I'm fine," came a sleepy sounding voice from the cluttered couch. Bookman shot a questioning look at Ganesa, who mouthed the word "camouflage" at him. The old man thought it was rather ridiculous.

"Then what was that tone of voice for?" Manas asked, rounding on Jeza, who looked affronted at his sudden attack.

"The tone was in response to the fact that I've had about three people—all of whom are my superiors by the way—asking if I had seen Lavi or if I knew where he was," Jeza replied, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.

"And? You didn't tell them…did you?" Ganesa asked, horrified at the prospect.

"Of course not! I lied! To my superiors!" Jeza said, burying her face in her hands and sighing: "I'm going to get exiled for this…"

"So who were they?" asked Manas.

"Who?" Jeza murmured miserably, not looking at anyone.

"The three that came in?" asked Ganesa.

"East Shepherd Enoch, West Shepherd Rong, and Archive Master Dakshina," Jeza said, moaning into her palms. "I can't believe I lied to them…"

"Thanks for that, by the way," came Lavi's voice from beneath the papers once again, "because if Rong got his hands on me again, I don't think I'd live."

There was an uneasy silence for a moment. Bookman was almost able to feel the shift that occurred in Manas, who had just begun to calm down. His anger began to rise again at the mention of the West Shepherd. Ganesa must have felt it too and decided that a change of topic was in order.

"Can you even breathe under all of that?" Ganesa asked, concerned as he went to move some of the clutter from on top of the hidden child.

"Yes, fine. In fact, I'm reading your research proposal," Lavi replied.

"And how does it look so far?" Ganesa inquired conversationally, sweeping the papers off with his hands without regard to what they were, meanwhile throwing the books into a pile on the floor.

"You spelled phosphorescent wrong on page twenty-three and I think your apostrophes went into hiding because there are absolutely none here on pages eighteen, twenty-three, twenty-four, thirty-two, forty-one, and forty-seven," Lavi informed him.

"Thanks, we'll get right on that," Ganesa said. With another giant sweep, he cleared away the remaining mess of documents. Lavi's head became visible as well as the rest of him, which was covered with a heavy woolen blanket. His countenance had become pale and tired. There was a bruise forming on his forehead above his left eye.

"Does this mean I can go now?" Lavi asked, blinking at all of them, as if trying to get his vision to focus in the bright lights of the office.

"No!" chorused the twins and Jeza.

"I lied for you!" Jeza said, looking down at Lavi angrily.

"You're too injured," Manas said over her, giving Jeza a glare.

"I'm really fine," Lavi answered, making to sit up. Ganesa took his shoulder gently and easily pushed him back down onto the couch.

"No, you're really not," Ganesa retorted, with only fondness in his tone, "and you're staying here until—" His sentence cut off when the sound of the office door opening reached their ears. Jeza made a convulsive movement at the noise and attempted to hide behind Manas, who leaned out of the alcove to see who it was that had entered.

"It's done." 

When Bookman followed Manas' gesture, he found that it was a short, portly little man with very little hair and a very large mustache who said those words. He was in his mid-forties and had a slight German accent. Following him was an extremely tall and silent man with black shoulder-length, lanky hair. When they noticed Bookman's presence, the two of them gave small bows to him respectfully.

"What's done, Hans?" Manas asked cautiously. 

"That salve you wanted," Hans replied. Manas merely looked confused.

"You mean the salve _I _wanted," Ganesa corrected, standing up from his place by the sofa to squeeze through the throng of people in order to meet Hans where he stood. The German man appeared very embarrassed by his mistake, but Ganesa patted him on the shoulder genially with an understanding smile.

"It's quite all right. No one can tell us apart anyways," Ganesa said, and accepted the proffered jar from him.

"Hi, Hans," Lavi said from the couch. "Bartleby." The shorter of the two men inched between the two desks to see who had spoken. The tall, dark-haired man peered over the filing cabinet instead. He nodded at Lavi, but did not say anything in return. When Hans reached the alcove, on the other hand, he shook his head in near disbelief.

"Oh, no, it's not you again? Rong sure likes to throttle you, doesn't he?" Hans asked.

"I'm sure it's just his way of showing that he cares," Lavi replied, sitting up a little from his place on the messy couch.

"Um, thanks a lot for this, Hans," Ganesa said. He wasn't the only one who had seen Manas' face turn dark at the lighthearted discussion regarding abuse.

"No problem. Get better soon, ya?" Hans said to Lavi and turned to leave. Bartleby nodded in agreement, pulling back his overly long neck from the place above the rattling filing cabinet and followed. They bowed once more to Bookman before leaving, closing the door softly behind them.

"For a second...I thought I was going to have a heart attack..." Jeza breathed, holding her chest.

"If you're so panicked about losing your job, why don't you just leave?" Manas snapped, his mounting anger seeming to raise a fraction more each second.

"Well maybe I will!" Jeza cried.

"Well maybe you should!" Manas growled meanly.

"Yeah? Then watch me leave!" Jeza shouted, standing up quickly. The force of her movement sent the tank across the floor. The gnome toppled out of its habitat and opened its mouth repeatedly, almost as if it were swearing at them.

"Now...let's just calm down..." Ganesa said, stepping in between them in order to break up their argument. However Manas was still seething and Jeza was working herself up to that point as well. When Ganesa placed a hand on each of their shoulders to push them back, they exploded.

"YOU STAY OUT OF THIS!" they yelled. Ganesa withdrew, most likely frightened for his life.

"I don't see you WALKING," Manas barked, nearing Jeza to glare at her right in the eyes.

"Oh, I'll show you _WALKING_!" Jeza retorted in a promising tone, rising onto her tiptoes to meet Manas' stare.

"Can you…stop shouting...?" Lavi asked, rubbing at his bruised temple with a painful expression.

"WE'LL SHOUT IF WE WANT TO!" they shouted at him, before turning back towards one another. They were so angry that Bookman could almost see the sparks flying; the air was heavy with heat and tension as they exchanged words in a very loud and rude manner. Ganesa grabbed the both of them by their collars and began shoving them in the direction of the door.

"If you're not going to stop, then go shout outside!" Ganesa said and pushed the both of them, still bickering, out of the office. He then slammed the door, causing a plume of dust to expel from the ceiling tiles above. Outside, Bookman could hear the two of them arguing in rising pitches.

"Lover's quarrel much?" Lavi muttered to himself.

"Just let them sort it out," Ganesa advised, walking over to the couch. He pulled the tank with the gnome inside to its previous position and sat down upon it.

"They will no doubt cause undue attention," Bookman said, listening to the two outside. He noticed that Lavi looked over in his direction as if he just noticed his presence. The redhead seemed confused as to why Bookman was there, but he did not ask any questions, instead rubbing at the knot-like bruise on his forehead with a wince. Beside him, Ganesa was rubbing his chin and contemplating Bookman's words.

"Not as much as you'd think. They argue like that all the time," Ganesa replied.

"They need to get over it," Lavi grumbled, rolling onto his side and pulling the blanket over his head.

"Don't go to sleep. I still have to—" For the second time, Ganesa was unable to finish when the door was thrown open. Enoch stalked in, looking angry, betrayed, and distressed all at the same time. A few chickens meandered into the office after him before Enoch could slam the door shut.

"Just _what_ is going on?" Enoch shouted, his voice rivaling the bickering couple outside.

"What…is going on?" Ganesa asked, trying to sound natural.

"That's what _I_ want to know!" Enoch said loudly. He began to pace, frightening the chickens into frenzied clucking. Then, he began his uncharacteristic yelling once more: "I get up this morning and the first thing I hear is that Lavi tried to get out last night, again, only to get punished severely by West Shepherd Rong, _again_. Then, I get to witness my _bao bei_ nearly break down in hysterics this morning because Lavi went missing. Afterwards, I get roped into a search to look for said _missing youth_ only to find out that _he_ is probably _here_ with _you_ and that made me feel like a damned fool for not thinking about that first in the first place. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, I come back here to encounter excessive _yelling_ by two of my staff and there are _chickens_ running wild _everywhere_ and I haven't even had MY COFFEE YET!" After that, it seemed as if Enoch ran out of air and out of energy, because slumped into the nearest chair and did not move after that.

"Is he…dead…?" came the inquiry from beneath the blanket.

"I don't…think so…" Ganesa replied, his tone slightly unsure.

"I wish…I was dead…" Enoch moaned, still not moving.

"Should we get you some coffee?" Ganesa offered.

"Only if there's paint thinner in it," Enoch answered piteously.

"Black with a shot of Bailey's it is then," Ganesa said, and stood up to start a fresh pot. Setting the container of Han's salve down on the nearest counter that had some free space, Ganesa then went over to another desk in the corner of the room and began to make some coffee. He had just put the pot on a portable burner when the door was kicked open. It was hit with such force that the door ricocheted off the wall and slammed shut before it was thrown roughly open once more.

"Just what's your PROBLEM anyway?" Manas shouted as he stomped into the room. Several chickens fluttered out of his way. One jumped onto Enoch's lap, but the Shepherd didn't move from his comatose position.

"MY PROBLEM? MY PROBLEM?" Jeza repeated, so shrilly that her pitch hurt Bookman's ears.

"Yes! _YOUR_ PROBLEM!" Manas yelled over her. The both of them were gesticulating wildly at each other as they argued, standing in the middle of the doorway like heathens.

"Get over it you guys!" Ganesa said to them as he scooped coffee grinds into the percolator.

"WE'LL GET OVER IT WHEN WE'RE GOOD AND READY!" they shouted back.

"Why is everyone shouting?" a feminine voice asked over the commotion. Two slender hands pushed the bickering couple apart and Dakshina appeared between the two to step inside. With the new addition, the office was so crowded with people and chickens that it was pure chaos. It only became more claustrophobic when Manas and Jeza continued their argument while Dakshina rushed to Enoch's side to shake him into consciousness. The noise level rose exponentially.

"_NI MEN DOU BI ZUI_!" Ganesa shouted.

The din ceased at the sound of his voice. Ganesa had never spoken so loudly before and in such a commanding tone.

"Now, you two," Ganesa said, pointing to his brother and Jeza, who wore similar expressions of shock at his outburst, "get out."

With annoyed grumbles and mutters and dark looks, the two of them left.

"You," Ganesa said, indicating Dakshina, "sit."

And she sat.

"And you," said Ganesa, pointing at Enoch who still sat motionless in his chair. "No, really, don't get up."

Enoch continued to limply lie there, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

"Now, Lavi," Ganesa continued authoritatively, turning toward the empty couch to look at the redhead. That was when it became apparent that, in the midst of all of the tumult, Lavi had somehow slipped out without any of them noticing. The back door to the office was cracked and the jar of salve was gone from the edge of the table.

"Where did he go?!" Ganesa asked, looking about the room. Enoch gave a slight twitch at his cry, but did not sit up. On the other hand, Dakshina stood abruptly and glanced, white-faced, at the couch.

"You mean Lavi was here?" she asked, panicked.

"_Was_ here…" Ganesa corrected, walking over to the couch.

"You mean he's gone?!" asked Manas and Jeza, who had finally stopped glaring daggers at one another long enough to realize the situation.

"I didn't even see him leave…" Ganesa said, mostly to himself. Bookman silently agreed, as he hadn't noticed the child move, let alone exit the room entirely.

"But…he can't be…" Dakshina said somewhat weakly as she sunk down into the nearest chair. She seemed overly distraught by the news, and even more so when Ganesa picked up the blanket that had been left on the couch and held it up. The couch was truly vacant; Lavi had disappeared without a trace.

"That _idiot_! How could he be so _yu ben de_?!" Manas exclaimed angrily, punching the doorframe.

"West Shepherd Rong is looking for him too," Jeza said quietly, speaking quietly for the first time since Bookman had entered the room. Her concerned tone turned everyone's heads. She flushed and looked down, murmuring: "You don't think…"

"Rong will not hurt him," Dakshina said, her voice certain.

"How can you say that? After what he did—" Manas began.

"He was upset this morning," Dakshina interjected, looking at the outspoken twin with a level gaze. "Rong said that what transpired last night was under a terrible misconception."

"So what…does that mean?" Ganesa asked carefully, looking at Dakshina.

"It means that Rong was under a false impression," Dakshina said softly, "and his actions that followed because of it were unwarranted."

"So…that means…" Manas said slowly.

"That means someone set this up," Bookman informed them.

And he knew just who that was.

**pqpq**

Revised 11/12/2009

Dhampir72


	9. Rong's Debt

**Chapter 9: Rong's Debt**

"Wait, so Rong was _set up_?" Ganesa asked.

"I don't believe it," Jeza said, shaking her head. She aimed a kick at one of the chickens that had been pecking at her boot. It ended up on Enoch's lap with the other bird, although in his catatonic state, the East Shepherd did not notice the new addition.

"Well, it does make sense…" continued Manas in a thoughtful voice, leaning against the wall. He was cradling the hand that he had used to punch the doorframe; it looked like his knuckles were raw and bleeding.

"It makes _sense_?" Ganesa asked, looking at his brother, confused.

"Think about it: Lavi's been accused of trying to escape under a Bound status," Manas said, pulling out their timeline, "but he has an alibi for every part of the day, give or take a few spare minutes."

"You're right… The Doors are practically over in West. It would take him ages to get there and then get back," Ganesa said, picking up on his train of thought immediately.

"With the security around the Doors, he would have been caught almost immediately and taken to be punished," said Manas, "not after the fact."

"And he was with someone for almost nine solid hours in the afternoon to the early evening, which is when he supposedly tried to escape," Ganesa said, "so there is no way he could have snuck out to do something like that."

"That means someone…had to make something up…" Jeza murmured, catching on.

"Which means that Rong had nothing to do with this," concluded Ganesa triumphantly. Bookman was surprised it took so many intelligent people to figure out that simple fact.

"Jeza, you said that Lavi was collected at around seven-thirty, when most of the staff was heading to dinner, right?" Manas asked, looking at the secretary, who nodded, a bit flustered.

"Did Shepherd Rong come himself, Jeza?" Dakshina inquired. Jeza's embarrassment only increased when Dakshina spoke to her directly.

"No, Dakshina-sama," Jeza replied, with a nervous bow.

"Who did?" Dakshina inquired.

"Why, it was your apprentice, Dakshina-sama: Yi Min," Jeza answered politely.

"Yi Min?" Dakshina repeated, clearly surprised. Bookman raised his eyebrow, recalling the girl that had spoken with such venom to Lavi several weeks prior.

_How clever…_ he could only think.

"Yes. I thought it was kind of cute, really. Thought maybe Lavi'd gotten himself a girlfriend," Jeza said with a cheerful smile. No one else shared her vision as was apparent when the twins glared darkly at her. "W-Well I didn't know!" Jeza faltered, looking embarrassed.

"But it's still not adding up…" Dakshina said, turning away with her arms crossed. Bookman could tell that she was in serious denial of her apprentice's involvement in the entire situation.

"What do you mean?" Manas asked hotly, pushing off the doorframe angrily to approach her.

"What do _you_ mean?" Dakshina asked coldly, turning around to face him.

"What I'm saying is that everyone has seen how much Yi Min hates Lavi. What's to say she didn't make something up to get him into trouble?" Manas replied, tilting his head in questioning.

"It would explain why Rong was clueless about the whole thing," Ganesa added.

"That's impossible," Dakshina said quickly, turning around to keep her back to Manas again.

"Are you truly that _blind_?" Manas asked, in a very nasty voice.

"How _dare_ you speak to me that way?" Dakshina asked, whirling around violently.

"Someone has to! The truth is staring you in the face and you're refusing to see it!" Manas replied.

"Because there is no truth! You are jumping to conclusions!" Dakshina said, in an equal pitch. Jeza backed away from them to stand with Ganesa, who was looking helpless and frightened at the sudden development. It seemed that Manas was determined to pick a fight with everyone, no matter what the consequences. It could have been due to the sudden increase in noise, but Hans and Bartleby stuck their heads in the office to investigate what was happening inside.

"GET OUT!" Dakshina yelled at them, before they could even ask what was going on. They retreated in fear for their lives.

"Jumping to conclusions? Are you absolutely _kuang-zhe de_?!" Manas asked, continuing with their argument after the interruption. Dakshina did not deign to answer him and instead turned to look at Enoch.

"Are you just going to let him speak to me that way?" Dakshina asked, looking pointedly at him. But the East Shepherd was still comatose and did not answer. That was probably the best course of action anyway, much like playing dead during a bear attack.

"Don't go running to him for help! This is your problem!" Manas said.

"My problem? _My _problem?" Dakshina repeated, incredulous.

"What is it with women saying that?" Ganesa asked. Jeza glanced at him with an expression that was anything but amused. Meanwhile, Dakshina and Manas had not ceased their heated exchange.

"Yes! _Your_ problem! _Your_ apprentice had the audacity to pull a practical joke that could have gotten Lavi killed!" Manas growled, tone dangerous.

"You're over exaggerating. Rong would never kill anyone," Dakshina replied.

"On purpose," Ganesa muttered under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Don't you start," Dakshina snapped at him.

"Don't you tell me not to start," Ganesa snapped back.

"The both of you are jumping to conclusions! There are so many other possibilities!" Dakshina said, looking from one twin to the other.

"You know, I would have thought you would have been the first person to jump to conclusions, what with how you feel about Lavi," Manas said, his voice very quiet.

"Do not go there," Dakshina threatened him.

"Go where?" Manas asked, leaning forward to say: "What? You don't want to know the truth? Is it so beyond what you want to hear that you just won't listen? You weren't the one to find that kid nearly dead this morning, so you don't understand how _bad_ it really was, do you?"

Dakshina went white and looked down, ashamed.

"Not much to say about that, is there?" Manas said nastily.

The room was deathly silent.

"How…how bad was it?" Dakshina asked quietly.

"If you're familiar with the expression 'to be someone within an inch of their life' then you'll understand how serious it truly was," Manas replied coolly.

"We really did think he was dead, you know," Ganesa added softly, "because he was barely moving when we found him."

"It's a bloody miracle he even managed to make it all the way from West back to East in such a state," Manas said.

"All bruised—"

"And battered—"

"Shut up, you two," Dakshina said, her voice advising the twins not to continue if they valued their lives. They took her advice and stopped, the room falling silent again. Even the chickens were quiet.

"I'm going," said Dakshina, and she left.

No one stopped her.

**pqpq**

The afternoon consisted of Bookman wandering around West in search of Rong. He didn't really want to call it searching, per say, but more like Bookman was hoping to run into Rong and interrogate the Shepherd. And it wasn't because Bookman cared; he was merely curious about the whole matter, especially because it concerned one of the most capable candidates for his apprenticeship. However, if anyone asked, it was because the matter had piqued his interest in general. And Rong was the person to ask about the whole thing, after all. And although Bookman already had a good idea who was behind the events, he needed substantial evidence to prove it.

But no matter where Bookman looked, Rong could not be found. According to different sources he was "in his office" or "in the dojo", both of which Bookman found him absent from. From there, the rumors began to become a little out of control. Bookman even came across a first former who looked aghast that Bookman had not heard the news that Rong had mysteriously died the previous night because of an incurable and vicious strain of influenza.

Two days of prowling around led to no new revelations. As far as Bookman could conclude, Rong had holed up somewhere where no one could find him. And if that wasn't bad enough, Dakshina had locked herself up in South Archives and Abel informed everyone that she would not come out until she was done with her angst. Yi Min had very conveniently gone missing as well, perhaps hiding in her dorm until the storm blew over, which was a nice way of saying that everyone within a fifteen foot radius who knew what happened wanted to cause bodily harm to her. Lavi was in hiding too and no one could find him. Due to his mysterious absence and the extent of his injuries, some of the staff in East believed him dead. Manas and Ganesa snapped at anyone who even whispered anything about it and their moods turned fouler and fouler by the hour.

On the up side—if it were truly considered an up side—Enoch woke from his coma after a large dose of caffeine. On the down side, he spent most of his time stalking up and down the corridors muttering to himself and twisting his hands repeatedly, telling off students for ridiculous things (such as laughing, coughing, breathing, etc). When he wasn't doing this, he was obviously falling under a wave of despair in his office, whether over Lavi's predicament or the fact that he hadn't seen Dakshina in over forty-eight hours. The giggly shrub outside of his door had turned black for the occasion.

Bookman thought someone should set fire to it.

**pqpq**

By the third day, Bookman felt as if he was running out of options. With no one willing to talk about the incident, there was nothing that could be done to amend it, or at least figure out exactly what had transpired. Dakshina would not see anyone, despite persistent efforts on Enoch's part. Because of that, the East Shepherd had locked himself in his office and refused to come out. With Lavi and Yi Min still missing, Bookman found himself once again pointlessly wandering in West. However, during his excursion, he was fortunate to encounter the elusive Rong in the corridor outside the dojo. And he wasn't alone either: Lavi was stiffly tagging along behind him, looking pale and a little apprehensive.

"Bookman," Rong said stiffly, giving him a curt nod.

"Rong," Bookman replied simply. He noticed that Rong looked almost as worn down as Lavi, sickly even. Perhaps so many days in isolation with such a burden weighing down upon his shoulders had affected the Shepherd more than Bookman would have first thought. With nothing else said, the West Shepherd promptly turned his back to Bookman and slid open the door to the dojo.

"Come along," Rong said curtly to Lavi. He disappeared inside, leaving the door open behind him as an invitation. Lavi peeked into the dojo, but did not immediately follow. Bookman did not blame him for this hesitancy, as the old man could see the tip of a nasty looking bruise settled on Lavi's neck above the collar of his kimono. Rong must have throttled him quite violently.

"I didn't do it, you know," Lavi said, not looking at Bookman.

"I do," Bookman replied.

"Does he know?" Lavi asked, tilting his head in the direction of the dojo.

"Yes," Bookman answered.

"So he's not going to go all _xiong meng de kuang ren_ on me again...is he?"

"Most likely not."

"Why is that not reassuring?"

"Because it isn't."

"Gee, thanks."

**pqpq**

Rong served them tea in the reception room of the dojo with his usual scowl. It was everything Bookman had imagined it to be: awkward and quiet. Bookman just kept a level stare as he accepted his drink from their host. Beside him, Lavi was too busy staring at the tea as if it might be poison to notice anything else.

"Perhaps it is better that you have come as well, Bookman…" Rong said. The West Shepherd rose and came around to their side of the table. Lavi leaned away from him a bit, not quite fearfully, but cautiously, as if any sudden movements would cause Rong to lash out at him. But quite the opposite happened when Rong went to his knees and bowed a true fingertips-and-head-to-the-ground bow before Lavi, who looked confused at the display.

"I have committed a terrible crime. By doing so, I brought unnecessary physical injury to you and shame upon myself," Rong said, his voice muffled against the wooden floor. "I have no right to implore your forgiveness, but here I do so, on my knees. And with the greatest humility I humbly ask your pardon. _Domo sumimasen_."

Lavi looked at Bookman, as if asking for help, or at least explanation.

"Rong has been dishonored," Bookman informed him. "By inflicting injury upon you without evidence of your crime, he has shamed himself as a master of every martial art."

"Um, s'kay then," Lavi said, looking down at Rong.

But Rong would not rise.

"Really, it's fine," Lavi added.

"Alas, it is how I feared," Rong said, his head and body still bowed in submissive humility. "Even upon receiving your pardon, I remain in your debt."

"I don't see why…" Lavi answered honestly.

Bookman knew. Rong was a very proud man: proud of his heritage and his teachings. That was the reason why he felt so shamed at his crime. It betrayed everything that he had been taught and everything that he was currently teaching his students. He was branded with the deepest shame for using his skills in the martial arts for something that did not deliver justice or retribution. By trespassing on those traditions, Rong was indebted to repay for the damages he had inflicted upon his victim, as it was the custom for wronging one who should not have been wronged. It was the deepest action of humility. Even _seppuku_ was too good for a person who had dishonored his teachings, despite the fact that Rong had not known the truth at the time of delivering the punishment.

"Because I have injured you," Rong replied.

"But you didn't know. It was under a false accusation that you punished me. In truth, it should be those who told you lies who should be shamed," Lavi said, in an understanding manner.

"And even so I could have gathered my own evidence to prove your guilt, but I did not. Because of this, I have caused you bodily injury that was unjust and undeserved," Rong said.

"It's really fine. In about a week I might be able to lift my arms over my head again," Lavi answered, somewhat jokingly. Rong was not amused.

"My shame runs deeper than before at your words," Rong replied.

"Sorry."

"I am the one who is apologizing."

"Sorry," Lavi said again, "and you don't need to be in my debt or anything, really. So, stop feeling so ashamed."

"I see that there will be no possible way for me to completely fulfill my debt to you," Rong replied, not listening to Lavi's advice. Instead, he stood and walked over to the nearest wall. There, he pulled down a long _bokken_ made of strong bamboo. Afterwards, Rong returned to his previous spot and knelt down before Lavi, presenting him with the sword, much like an offering.

"This is the sword that, by my hand, wronged you. It resonates for your hand to administer retribution," Rong said.

"In other words: you want me to hit you…with _that_?" Lavi asked, looking down at the weapon as if it might bite him.

"I beg for it. It is the only way to set things to rights," Rong said.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Lavi answered, and stood up, "because I have this thing about pain. I don't like it and I certainly don't like inflicting it."

"My debt must be paid," Rong insisted, still bowed; still offering that sword. But Lavi had inched backwards towards the door, shaking his head. "I beg of you." Those words had no sooner left the West Shepherd's lips when Lavi left, closing the sliding door behind him with a resounding slam. Bookman heard his footsteps disappear down the hall.

"Alas, the debt remains," Rong sighed, rising from his pose of humility. The sword rested untouched in his open palms.

"It does not have to," Bookman said. The plan he had decided on after speaking with the Chancellor could finally be put into play. It took the form of a document which Bookman handed over for Rong to peruse. "By signing this, you will reverse both the Bound and Denied Furtherance statuses," Bookman explained. "Look at it as a solution to your debt; it would do Lavi a good service."

Rong took it.

"He didn't cry, you know," Rong said quietly, after a long, thoughtful pause, "…this time…and the time before." He was holding the paper in his hands like he was reading it, but Bookman could see that his eyes weren't moving. Rong continued: "I think he's the only one…the only one that has never cried."

"And you like it when they cry, don't you Rong," Bookman said, so that it was a statement and not a question. The West Shepherd did not answer and for the first time, Bookman thought he looked almost vulnerable. What was it about that boy that made everyone act with such strong emotion?

"I guess it wasn't as enjoyable as it normally is," Bookman commented as harshly as he could when Rong did not reply. The other man merely gave a wry little smile. It made him look so very much older than his years.

"You think I take pleasure in it?" Rong asked, looking down. "It shows how much you know about me."

"Then why bring up such an observation? Were you disappointed that you could not break someone, Rong? Especially when it usually comes so easy to you?" Bookman inquired coldly. Externally, Bookman knew he must appear as if he were one of the many people that Lavi had affected greatly. In truth, Bookman was attempting to persuade Rong to do as he wished by signing the document that would benefit his cause.

"You misunderstand me, Bookman," said Rong quietly. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't break what was never whole to begin with."

**pqpq**

Revised 11/14/2009

Dhampir72


	10. Dakshina's Decision

**Chapter 10: Dakshina's Decision**

Rong signed the contract.

The West Shepherd did not even read the print upon the page. Instead, he signed the parchment with the intricate Chinese characters that signified his name and title. With that completed, Rong rose and collected a mahogany box from the dojo office. Inside was an ancient, cylindrical stamp with the crest of his House. He burned a stick of wax and coated the end in the crimson material, before pressing it next to his name. With that, he sealed his promise on the document and handed it back to Bookman. Rong then turned his back to the old man and began to methodically clean the end of the stamp with precise care. He said nothing more, signifying that the conversation was over and that he would take no part in further discussion. Receiving what he came for, Bookman excused himself and left the dojo without another word.

In his hand, he held Rong's repaid debt. The West Shepherd could rest easy knowing that the wrong he had committed had been undone. That left only the other three Shepherds to sign. If he could manage them with as much ease as Rong, then perhaps Bookman had a chance with his plan. However, it was going to require a great deal of wit and devious skill to get the remaining three to reach a consensus. Even Enoch would be difficult, despite the fact that Bookman had known him since he was a young boy striving for the former East Shepherd's apprenticeship slot. It was all because Enoch was overwhelmed with problems at the moment and because of that, there was no telling what he might or might not do.

Bookman decided to wait on Enoch for the moment, which left the North and South Shepherds on the list. The North Shepherd, Darius, was—to put it plainly—a prat. There was something about the man that repulsed Bookman to no end. He presumed it was the man's attitude: he was so snooty and self-righteous that it was ridiculous. Bookman wanted to put off requesting a favor from him for as long as possible: possibly into the next century if he could somehow work it out, as Darius was a close running second on Bookman's most hated person list. The Chancellor still held first place because in Bookman's mind, idiocy was more annoying than arrogance.

So to South it was to speak with Shepherd Rune.

**pqpq**

"What do you mean?" Bookman asked.

"I mean that Shepherd Rune can't see anyone right now. His health won't allow it," Abel replied. The Keeper of the Archives looked like _he_ was the one in ill health. But Bookman knew that Abel had always looked that way; it must have been something genetic. Still, that didn't make the situation any better. With Rune indisposed, Bookman had no options left to him, as he required the Shepherds' signatures to even _begin_ persuading the Chancellor to release Lavi into his care. Truly, it seemed like a great inconvenience, but Bookman knew that in order for any gain to be achieved, there had to be struggle. And he was beyond telling himself that Lavi was not anything special, because Bookman had made his decision: Lavi would become his apprentice.

He would not give up so easily on such an ideal candidate.

"And his apprentice?" Bookman asked, knowing that the responsibility of the Shepherd was passed to his apprentice in times of ill health or absence. But Abel merely shook his head, his long hair falling out of the clasp at the nape of his neck. The blonde had already gone a shocking gray, which was so strange for a man of thirty-something.

"He hasn't one yet. Shepherd Rune is always saying that the youth here are too soft in the head to fill his seat," Abel said, shrugging with a small, fond smile, "that stubborn fool."

"That's just in his character," Bookman answered, thinking that Rune _was_ rather foolish. When Bookman thought about it, he realized that the West Shepherd had been getting along in his years—far many more than Bookman, by at least two decades—so it was only natural that his health would become fragile in his old age. To think that he had not chosen an apprentice at his age…it was very inconvenient, Bookman had to say, and if he ever received the chance to speak on the subject with Rune, he would tell him exactly that.

"Now, wait a moment," Bookman said, recalling something he had almost forgotten: if a Shepherd had no apprentice and he was unable to continue his acting duties as Shepherd for a certain amount of time, the responsibility fell upon the person with the next highest title within his House. And Bookman could only hope beyond all hope that it was not who he thought as it would make things terribly complicated. Still, he had to inquire: "While Rune is indisposed, who carries his title as South Shepherd?"

"Why, that would be Archive Master Dakshina," Abel replied.

Jolly.

**pqpq**

Since Dakshina was still missing, the South Shepherd's power of attorney was unaccounted for. Because of that, not only did Bookman have to convince a less-than-eager Enoch to sign, but also a very stubborn Archive Master. It would be made only more difficult due to her personal attachment to the one he was seeking to make his apprentice. It was becoming even more of a hassle, but when he reminded himself of the interviewees that had barely a drop of potential in them, Bookman knew that he had to step up his efforts.

A pair of eager voices pulled him from his thoughts.

"Oi! It's Bookman!" Bookman turned around at the rather loud exclamation and found two bright-faced, red-headed twins running towards him at top speed. It was quite strange seeing them so energetically chipper after their continuous three days of being angry, foul-tempered beasts.

"Manas. Ganesa," Bookman greeted them, still not able to tell the difference between their identical faces. They did not seem to mind, still cheerfully grinning.

"We found Lavi!" they shouted in unison. Upon informing him of this fact, Bookman realized that they were carrying a large sack between the two of them. It was the same sort of burlap that was used to package potatoes or a good deal of fruit.

"Please let me out now," asked a voice from inside the bag. "It smells weird in here."

"You put him…in a sack?" Bookman asked, unsure of what to think.

"Yes!" they said. "That way he can't go missing again."

Their reply made Bookman ponder the stupidity of certain individuals.

"Because corpses can't wander off, right?" asked Lavi.

"Correct!" the twins sang

"Not comforting," said Lavi.

"We don't care!" said one twin.

"You worried us half to death!" said the other.

"NEVER AGAIN!" they chorused.

"You guys...really," Lavi muttered. The bag gave a slight hiss and became rather flat when Lavi suddenly appeared outside of it. He was shaking what looked like chicken feed off his person and out of his hair. The sack had a huge slit up one side; the seeds that had been stuck at the bottom spilled out onto the floor. The twins could only stare from Lavi to the ripped bag and then back again.

"HOW DID YOU DO THAT?" they shouted. Lavi's answer was a whistle as he twirled a kunai around his finger. The twins looked dumbfounded.

"ARE YOU A NINJA?" they yelled.

"You know, normal, sane people don't put other people inside burlap sacks," Lavi said, ignoring them as he pocketed the knife. "It's not good manners, you know."

"We're not normal," the twins replied. "Or sane."

"It shows," said Bookman and Lavi.

"We're glad," they answered.

"You strive for this sort of behavior?" Bookman asked.

"_ Oui_!" said the twins.

"Are you suddenly feeling French?" Lavi inquired.

"Well, we just read some of Foucault's work, again," said one twin.

"And Lussac and Pasteur were quite riveting," said the other, "a second time around."

"Any Flammarion?" Lavi asked curiously.

"_Non_," they replied.

"Then you are very much _les grands idiots_," Lavi informed them. And it was rather unexpected, but the both of them swooped down on Lavi in what could have been the largest hug ever seen.

"WE MISSED YOU!" they cried.

"Don't...squeeze me so hard...pain..." came Lavi's muffled voice beneath the jumble of arms and other body parts. The twins immediately let go of him, looking guilty for causing him any more undue anguish. With the three of them present, Bookman figured he could ask everyone whether or not they had seen and/or could help him find a certain Archive Master.

"Have any of you seen Dakshina recently?" Bookman inquired.

"You mean after that argument the other day?" asked one of the twins. Bookman gave a small nod. The twins merely shook their heads in the negative while Lavi appeared extremely confused.

"You two got into an argument with Dakshina?" Lavi asked.

"We're not proud of it, but yes," said Ganesa; Manas looked anything but apologetic.

"And you lived?"

"Now, we _are_ proud of that," said Manas.

"That is _trois chanceux_. It must have been your newfound French auras," Lavi replied.

"You think?" the twins chorused.

"Oh yeah. That was it," Lavi replied sarcastically.

"_OUI_!" they shouted merrily. Lavi shook his head and turned away from the rejoicing twins. Bookman watched the motion and noted that Lavi was still moving rather stiffly, signifying that his injuries had not healed completely as of yet.

"And I saw Dakshina this morning, by the way," Lavi said.

"Where was this?" Bookman inquired, allowing the idiots to continue in their excessive display of happiness.

"Over in East Sub-Annex 4. I was looking for Sheila, because she's gone missing. Sometimes she'll go in there and spin a web in one of the old experimentation rooms because there are lots of bugs and rats for her to eat," Lavi answered. Bookman effectively blocked out the mental image of that enormous spider eating small rodents before it could assault his mind. Speaking of mind assault: why were the twins dancing the _courante_ together?

"Why was she there?" Bookman asked, focusing his attention on the redheaded boy instead of the dancing brothers. Lavi's collected presence in the face of insanity reminded him of the document in his _haori_ sleeve, and those two factors urged Bookman to find Dakshina even quicker than before. He had a lot of convincing to do with the Shepherds themselves; then he had to persuade the Chancellor. And all of that for the boy standing in front of him that radiated positive potential.

"I have no idea," Lavi answered honestly.

"Can you show me the way to this annex?" requested Bookman.

"Sure. Should we leave _them_?" Lavi asked, looking at the twins worriedly. They were humming a _sarabande_ as they danced passionately in the middle of the hallway. How embarrassing.

"_Oui_," Bookman replied.

**pqpq**

On their way to the East annexes (with the twins dancing along behind them) they saw Dakshina walking with purpose toward the East Wing offices. Bookman felt that it was fortunate, as they did not have to traipse around in the dark, messy annexes looking for her. The Archive Master did not see them, even when the twins waved ecstatically after her. Instead, she kept her quick pace and disappeared into the maze of desks and plant-life that made up the wing's main workplace.

"What a shame," said one of the twins.

"We wanted to greet her," said the other.

"_BONJOUR_!" they shouted together, choosing to wave at nothing in particular.

"Will you guys just shut up?"

Jeza walking by with a stack of files in her arms, balancing the heavy manila folders with some struggle as she traveled in the same direction as Dakshina had toward the offices. As she passed, she gave the twins a warning glare from behind her still-cracked glasses. They smiled at her and pretended to stroke their invisible mustaches before following at a close proximity to the girl.

"Ahhh, _mademoiselle_! But you still have _l'amour_ for us, _oui_?" they asked simultaneously.

"Aren't you Brits?! Isn't being fag-smoking, beret-wearing, French-speaking posers somehow against your culture?" Jeza asked dryly, stalking off with a quicker pace toward the office.

"_Mademoiselle_! You have _blessé_ us!" the twins cried, holding their hearts as they fell onto the ground before her, the artistic images of poetic defeat.

"Good," she replied, not even bothering to stop as she stepped over their bodies, "whatever that means." Jeza was not able to escape into the office quickly enough. The twins got up and rushed at her, spouting a whole matter of terrible French at her. They then tried to woo her with their accents and dancing—to an _allemande_ this time—but Jeza was not amused and disappeared behind the foliage; the twins hurried to follow. Bookman could not believe their idiocy and shook his head as he, too entered into the East Wing offices. While the twins were busy, Bookman decided it would be his best option to seek out the two he needed to speak to. Even though he was not looking forward to being in the same room with both Enoch and Dakshina, Bookman could not put it off any longer, their bad moods be damned. Lavi trailed behind him curiously for a few meters before their path was halted by the two alchemists.

"Where're you going?" they asked curiously, their clasped hands out in front of them while they hovered, in mid-step in front of Bookman. When he did not answer them, they looked behind them to see the door he had been walking towards. They then turned back to face Bookman, twirling their invisible mustaches once again.

"Why are you going in there?" they asked. Before Bookman could tell the twins to mind their own business, a man with a very large (not invisible) mustache walked between the two brothers and immediately went towards the small, redheaded boy behind Bookman. The twins huffed at being ignored and danced off together, most likely to go bother Jeza some more.

"Yah! It is Lavi! We were wondering where you had gotten to," Hans said, patting his head affectionately.

"I was in a sack earlier," Lavi informed him.

"Oh, yah? That is…very interesting," Hans replied, looking a little worried. Before Lavi could explain (although what there was to explain, Bookman was unsure), a dark-haired man appeared behind the bow. Compared to Lavi—and to Bookman as well—the man was the size of Kilimanjaro. In his hands, he held what appeared to be a very large ostrich egg, although it was electric blue and covered with bright orange spots.

"Hi, Bartleby," Lavi said, tilting his head back to stare up at the man. His gaze then landed on the bizarre egg. "What've you got there?"

"It is egg," Bartleby answered. It was the first time Bookman had heard the man speak. He then understood why, as Bartleby's voice sounded like a block, if that were possible.

"It's…very colorful," Lavi offered as an observation.

"Dragon eggs colorful," Bartleby replied, holding the egg close to his chest like it was his own child.

"A dragon egg?" Lavi asked, sounding skeptical.

"Very rare egg," Bartleby said, still cradling it.

"Well, take good care of it then," Lavi told him. Bartleby gave him a nod and walked off rocking—was he really _rocking_ the egg?—leaving the remaining of them to stare after him.

"I don't have the heart to tell him it isn't a dragon egg," Hans sighed, twirling his mustache.

"What kind of egg is it?" Lavi asked.

"What kind, indeed!" said one of the twins who had sauntered over. He had a red cheek, which made Bookman wonder if Jeza's temper had finally snapped, causing her to slap whichever brother it was for his stupidity.

"Ganesa, we need to get mustaches like this," Manas said, appearing as well, throwing his arm around Hans's shoulders. He pointed animatedly at the German man's facial hair to indicate what he was referring to, as if the giant mustache was not obvious enough to begin with.

"It is _magnifique_, isn't it?" Ganesa agreed.

"Marvelous!" Manas acquiesced.

"Don't you try it, twins!" Hans growled irritably. "You are the ones that gave Bartleby that egg!"

"I'm really surprised he believed us about that," said Manas.

"You guys…really…" Lavi mumbled.

"What?" asked Ganesa.

"We just happened to have a plaster egg lying around—"

"For transmutation purposes, of course—"

"So we decided to paint it—"

"You know, just for jollies!"

"And Bartleby really took to it—"

"So we sort of—"

"Kind of—"

"Told him it was a dragon egg," they concluded.

"He's going to be really upset when he finds out that it isn't," Lavi told them, as if admonishing two children for doing something they should not have done. The twins looked as if they felt bad for a moment, but then their carefree grins returned.

"I just can't believe that _he_ believes it's a dragon egg," said Manas. "I mean, what kind of scientist would really believe in _dragons_ anyway."

Hans huffed and walked away, mumbling something unintelligible in German under his breath.

"Truly! That's like believing in Pixies and Acromantulas," Ganesa continued, as if he didn't notice Han's departure.

"You haven't had the pleasure of meeting Sheila, have you?" Lavi asked them. That was an Acromantula if Bookman ever saw one.

"_Qui_?" the twins asked. Lavi shook his head, as if disappointed in the two of them. A cluster of chickens clucked by loudly, only increasing Bookman's curiosity as to where in the hell the bloody birds kept coming from.

"Excuse me, but I need to speak with Enoch," Bookman said, preparing to withdraw from their company before anything else completely ridiculous could happen.

"I wouldn't go in there," Ganesa advised him.

"Enoch's teetering into the Valley of the Despairingly Mad," added Manas.

"Which is on the border of the Nation of the Frighteningly Insane," Ganesa clarified.

"It's scary in there!" they concluded, holding onto one another in a parody of fear.

Bookman did not comment further and made his way through the narrow spaces between desks and filing cabinets to Enoch's office. The plant outside the door was humming merrily to itself. It was still black and continued to sport that sprouted, strange breed of wilting magenta flower for the angst-filled mood of the room's occupant.

Rotten thing, indeed.

He knocked once and did not wait for someone to ask him inside, instead allowing himself into the office. Just as he thought, Enoch was at his messy desk and Dakshina was seated across from him. They were both sipping out of mismatched tea cups, their expressions moody and sullen. There wasn't even a greeting at Bookman's entrance, which was commented upon, but not by any of them.

"We don't even get a hello?" asked Ganesa from the doorway.

"Or better yet a—" began Manas.

"_BONJOUR_!" they shouted. Lavi stood between them and Bookman saw him put his face in his palm at their antics. Enoch did not look amused and Dakshina's aura was close to murderous.

"Out, you two. Back to work," Enoch said. His voice was the lowest that Bookman had ever heard it. It was the most threatening two sentences he had ever uttered, apparently, as the twins immediately closed the door, practically without clearing their noses from it first.

Then, there were three.

"We heard from Rong what you're doing, Bookman," Enoch said after a moment.

"Do you oppose my decision?" Bookman asked.

"Would it stop you if I did?" Enoch inquired in reply, staring into his teacup instead of even glancing at Bookman.

"Not even in the slightest," replied Bookman honestly. He was determined that Lavi would be his apprentice. If no one permitted it, then Bookman would leave without one. It was either his decision or no one at all.

"Then it's a pointless exercise, isn't it?" Enoch asked, running his hands over his face tiredly. The stress over the past few days had made the East Shepherd look even older than before. Had that exhaustion eventually led to his near-passive, but still serious, attitude?

"I presume it is," Bookman answered.

A silence followed, in which nothing was said and no one moved. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking from the clock up on the wall.

"Well, give it to me then," Enoch said, extending his hand, palm up, to accept the document. Bookman produced the parchment and placed it in his hand, noticing that when Enoch took it from him, his hand trembled only slightly. He unrolled it, eyes skimming over the legalities at the top; Bookman could tell that he was doing his best to not glance across the table at Dakshina while he did this. After he had perused it to his liking, the East Shepherd took his eagle feather from an ink well and signed the bottom of the page. Then he pulled out a piece of wax and his stamp from a rickety drawer and personalized it with his seal, just as Rong had done earlier.

With that finished, Enoch handed the document to Dakshina, who took it from him with a blank expression.

"As you are acting Shepherd of South House, it is your duty to make this decision," Enoch said, in a very professional tone. "You are not to let your biases as a caring adult sway your decision. You are to take the appropriate course of action as a Shepherd of this institution." She did not nod, but Bookman knew that she understood. Dakshina stared at the page for a long time: reading, re-reading, and possibly loophole searching; something to put off what she did not want to do. Bookman could see her hesitation, almost physically feel it radiating off her. Finally she sighed and looked up at Enoch, then at Bookman. She was truly torn: torn between keeping Lavi in headquarters to die a miserable life and letting him leave with Bookman on a dangerous, lonely path. Her gaze dropped back to the document before she asked:

"Will he…will Lavi be all right out there?" Dakshina asked softly.

"There are no guarantees," Bookman said truthfully, albeit a bit colder than he should have. He saw her flinch a bit at his coarseness. He attempted to amend with something a bit more comforting, although he felt he did not do a great job of that: "It is a dangerous world. He will either adapt to his new lifestyle or he will not. A quick eye and smart mind are essential for survival. I believe that the boy possesses these qualities and will do well, so long as he is not careless."

Dakshina's body was shaking; he could tell because the paper in her hands was trembling in her grasp. Enoch also saw this and looked like he was going to make the motion to comfort her, but he stopped. His hand paused in mid-air and returned to his side. He understood that it was business; the boundary between coworkers and intimate friends was a line best not to be crossed at that moment.

"It's just…It's just that he's seen…so much…Can't you tell just by looking at him sometimes?" Dakshina asked. Her voice was still soft, almost frail-sounding.

"That's what makes him the best choice for the position. He has experience with the sort of things that a Bookman is subject to witness," Bookman replied.

"_Experience_! How could you call it that?!" Dakshina spat angrily, standing up to face him. She clutched the document in her hand, crinkling it slightly in her grasp. "He was abandoned and he suffered terribly! Lavi nearly died out there in that place we so easily call the battlefield!"

"There is nothing easy about that place, Dakshina. You have seen for yourself first hand what the battlefield is capable of," Bookman said. "But that boy overcame those obstacles. He overcame the harshest of situations to find himself here, in this place. Despite his wretched past and dismal future, that boy survived, did he not? His mind remains in tact, does it not? He is able to function, am I correct? That experience and determination created a personality that is ideal—no—necessary to become a Bookman. Out of every intelligent mind in our Clan, I found not one of them to be as valuable as Lavi."

Dakshina didn't say anything for a moment, keeping her eyes downcast.

"You didn't say he lived," Dakshina said quietly, glancing up at him through her wet lashes. "In all of that, not once did you say he lived."

"Because that would be an inaccurate observation," Bookman replied, "but perhaps he will begin to live as he walks down a new path."

Dakshina would not look at him after that. In her hands, she held a piece of paper that was probably one of the biggest decisions in her life. And with trembling fingers, she reached for a quill on the desk. She turned it in her fingers, over and over again, debating, weighing the options. Bookman saw her bite her lip, rub the tip of her nail along the worn base of the fraying feather. During that time, it seemed as if even the clock had stopped its ticking. Enoch's gaze was on the far wall; Bookman could see that his hand made a fist beneath the hem of his sleeve. With baited breath, they waited. And then with the frantic scratching of her quill, Dakshina signed the document as acting South Shepherd. She signed away the life of the child she had taken in, destroyed, and gave it willingly, though not without turmoil, to another. With some force, Dakshina handed Bookman the parchment. Her eyes glared hardly at her abandoned teacup on the corner of Enoch's desk.

"Will you…take care of him?" Dakshina asked, after she had gathered her thoughts and—Bookman knew—her courage.

"As my successor, it is my duty to make sure no harm comes to that boy," Bookman answered, tucking away the document into a safe place inside his robe.

"I meant _take care of him_ as in…make sure you're kind to him. Offer any bit of geniality you have, please. And…make sure you…make sure to love him, even if it isn't very much," Dakshina implored. Tears fell down her cheeks. "He deserves even the littlest bit…after everything that's happened…after everything…I've done…"

"I cannot promise such a thing," Bookman said. Her eyes met his, wet and hurt. Even though Bookman could not see him, he could feel Enoch's stare as well. But still, Bookman could not make such empty promises and he did what he had done in the past. He did what he had done to so many people: dying and writhing in agony on the battlefield, so close, and yet so far from death as they begged—_begged _—him to help; to end their pain with mercy by killing them swiftly. Every time, he had let nothing show upon his face. Every time, he locked every feeling away so that he did not _feel_ for them. He did the same thing in that very office, miles and miles away from the nearest battlefield, to face the weeping eyes of a woman who cared too much. He could not do anything differently, because it would make him a hypocrite. The way it was, was the way it had to be.

"A Bookman has no need for a heart."

With that said, Dakshina could only sob.

**pqpq**

Revised 11/14/2009

Dhampir72


	11. New Stipulations

**Author's Note**: Wow. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter to let me know that you like this story! That's all I needed to know! And now that my ego is completely inflated and the plot bunnies have been tranquilized (for now) it's on with the show…!

**pqpq**

When Bookman stepped out of Enoch's office, he had to sidestep being snapped at by that wretched plant outside the door.

"That plant and Enoch have been the same lately, don'tcha think, Ganesa?" Manas asked, sitting on the edge of the desk closest to Enoch's office.

"Close like it. Did you see how mad he was?" Ganesa answered from the chair next to Manas.

The twins shuddered together, looking horrified.

"I haven't seen him get mad since that time we almost set fire to the East Library," Manas said.

"So that was you guys?" asked Lavi, walking up to them.

"Wotcher, Lavi. Where'd you g—hahahaha!" Manas began laughing before he could complete his sentence.

Lavi was holding Bartleby's egg in his arms. He carried it in an afghan and it was wearing what looked like an olive colored balaclava.

"What are you doing?" Ganesa asked laughing, though not as much as Manas.

"I'm babysitting," Lavi said crossly.

"Looks more like _eggsitting_. Get it? Get it?!" Manas said.

"Yeah, I get it," Lavi replied. "Ha, ha. Not."

"Oh, c'mon! You know I'm hilarious!" Manas said, smacking him on the back.

Lavi sucked in a pained breath at the contact, dropping the egg in his shock. It struck the side of the desk before it fell to the ground and shattered. They all stood there for a moment and stared at the fragments on the ground in disbelief.

"_Ta ma de_ (1)…" Lavi swore, either in pain or annoyance.

"_Sacre_ bloody _bleu_ (2)," Manas added.

"Bartleby is going to kill you," Ganesa said, looking at Lavi.

"Great," Lavi muttered.

"And speaking of Bartleby…here he comes now," Manas sang, altogether too happy for the situation.

"I hate you," was Lavi's response.

Bartleby was sweeping toward them in a frightening sort of way. A little like an oversized bat. Ganesa looked down at the mess on the floor and then at the approaching Russian. He sighed and pulled a piece of chalk out of his pocket.

"Go distract him for a minute," Ganesa said, nudging Lavi forward.

"_Distract him_?" Lavi repeated dazedly.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Ganesa said as he drew a circle near the majority of the mess.

Bartleby was getting very close, so Lavi made a beeline for him. Manas used his foot to push some of the pieces inside the transmutation circle.

"So," Manas began conversationally, turning to Bookman. "Has Enoch returned from the Valley of the Despairingly Mad yet?"

He nodded his head in the direction of Enoch's office. The plant sniggered at them evilly.

"He has…come around," Bookman replied, somewhat evasively.

"Well, at least we have one less problem to worry about now," Ganesa said.

"What did you say to Enoch to get him to come around?" Manas asked curiously.

"Yes, do tell. So the next time he goes all angst on us we can pull him out of it before it gets this bad again," Ganesa added, sweeping the broken pieces inside his circle.

Bookman was spared from having to answer their questions when a loud shout rang out. It had been Bartleby, who looked shocked as he cradled an unconscious Lavi in his arms. A small crowd of worried looking scientists formed around him.

"Oldest one in the book," Manas murmured, stepping in front of his twin to block Bartleby's view of his activities.

"At least it wasn't the _second_ oldest one in the book," Ganesa said.

"What are we talking about?"

Enoch and Dakshina had left the office and joined the group. The West Shepherd looked down at Ganesa's work curiously but did not ask. Probably because he didn't want to know what trouble they were up to, as the twins were grinning devious grins. It wasn't obvious to the normal observer, but Bookman noted that Enoch and Dakshina would not look in his direction.

"Distractions," Ganesa said offhand, finishing the complicated symbols inside his circle.

"More specifically the second oldest distraction in the book," Manas answered.

"Quite nice. What's going on over—"

"Don't you want to know what it is?" Manas asked, interrupting Enoch before he could finish his question.

"What what is?" Enoch answered, distractedly.

Possibly he was trying to figure out why Bartleby was looking so distressed while holding an unconscious child in his arms, surrounded by an assortment of his colleagues.

"The second oldest distraction in the book," the twins answered.

"Does it have anything to do with twins?" Enoch asked.

"No," they sang happily. "Ask us, ask us!"

"Fine. What is the—"

"Flashing the genitalia," they said at the same time, cutting off Enoch's question.

"That's only a little disgusting, thank you for that," Enoch replied, walking over to join the forming group; Dakshina followed him.

"You're welcome!" the twins shouted after them.

"And now it's fixed!" Ganesa said, standing up with a fully reformed egg in his hands.

"And now we have to rescue Lavi from that mob scene," Manas added, jabbing his thumb at the throng of people.

"It can wait," Bookman said; the twins stared at him.

"Because there's something interesting we could take part in?" Manas asked deviously.

"Perhaps," Bookman replied.

"He's not one for making promises, is he?" Ganesa asked his twin, who shook his head.

"What can we get in on?" Manas asked.

Both of them stared at Bookman expectantly, two identical faces with two identical looks of sly interest. Bookman pulled the document from his robe pocket and handed it to Manas. Ganesa came over and sat on the desk next to his brother, holding the egg in his lap. The both of them looked it over together, their eyes moving back and forth together.

"Wow…" Ganesa whistled.

"Words…escape me," Manas said.

"This is bloody brilliant!" they chorused.

The plant outside Enoch's door gave a disgruntled snort at their enthusiasm.

"We really didn't know you cared so much, Bookman," Ganesa said.

"We always thought you were an uncaring—"

"Indifferent—"

"Cold—"

"Emotionless—"

"Bastard!" they sang, all too happily for people delivering an insult.

"How complimentary to my character," Bookman drawled.

"You have no idea how much this will mean to Lavi," Ganesa said, his tone serious as he stared at the document. "He'll be able to take classes here…learn things…"

"That's it!" Manas shouted, standing at attention. "We're on a mission now!"

"Securing the Last and Final Signature from North Shepherd Darius in the Pursuit of Further Education for Our Favorite Little Red-Headed Twerp!" the twins shouted.

"You gave it a name?" Bookman raised an eyebrow.

"You betcha!" they replied.

"What's a mission—" began Ganesa.

"Without a name?" Manas finished.

They were brimming with so much excitement and determination that Bookman decided not to tell them the true motive behind the document. He was perfectly content to let them think that the reverse of status was for Lavi's educational benefit, when in fact it was the last hurdle in Bookman's way to secure Lavi as his apprentice.

"And how to you plan to acquire said signature?" Bookman inquired.

The twins looked at each other and grinned slyly.

"Let's just say—" Manas said.

"That we—"

"Have some things—"

"Awful things—"

"_Dreadful_ things—"

"_Scandalous_ things—"

"On Darius," they finished devilishly.

"So in other words—" Bookman began.

"Blackmail!" they sang.

Bookman hid his smile, though he was sure the corners of his lips turned up somewhat. Darius was going to get his. And even though Bookman was supposed to be impartial, Darius's arrogance deserved to be taken down a few notches, and maybe the twins would be able to perform this service. Bookman was suddenly very glad that the twins were his allies and not his enemies.

"Just do it right," Bookman said.

With his permission, the two of them dashed away so quickly that their forms blurred as they ran out of the office.

**pdpd**

To occupy the time, Bookman left the East Wing and took a lift down to South again. He commissioned Abel to make a new Archive scroll and case for him. An Archive scroll was about a foot high and when unrolled reached about twenty yards. It was something that a Bookman recorded his travels in, and when he returned, the scroll was archived. Bookman had filled three scrolls in his travels over the past few years, as the world was shifting into a period that held much history, which called for persistent recording.

He was going to have Abel make one for Lavi, but decided against it for the time being. Who knew what the Chancellor would do when Bookman handed over that document with the Four Shepherd's consensus.

Have a conniption, most likely.

Bookman couldn't wait.

**pdpd**

On his way back to East Wing, Bookman found the twins stepping out of a lift, strutting about as if they had just become the princes of the universe.

"So, Ganesa," Manas began conversationally, as he caught sight of Bookman. "What do you think that was?"

"I'd say it was a nervy b.," Ganesa replied thoughtfully.

"Hmm, see, I disagree. I thought it was more of a funny turn," Manas commented.

The both of them smiled at Bookman and Manas produced the document, its surface shining with the fresh wax seal of the North Shepherd. Taking the paper from Manas, Bookman looked it over and felt slightly impressed.

"I have no idea how you did this, nor do I want to," Bookman said.

"Oh, you're no fun," Ganesa huffed, crossing his arms.

"You should have seen Darius dithering! It was _tres amusant_ (3)!" Manas said.

"Don't you want to hear how we did it?" they asked.

"Not particularly," Bookman replied.

"Fine," the twins said, sounding a little wounded.

"Let's go find a schedule sheet for Lavi," Ganesa said, shifting his hold on Bartleby's egg.

"Let's," Manas agreed.

And then they linked arms and skipped away.

Fruits.

**pqpq**

The Chancellor was jovial when Bookman arrived in North. He was sitting on a throne of plush pillows with two Ambassadors on each side of him, dressed in matching kimono. Bookman guessed that his good mood attributed to the fact that he thought Bookman had come to say that his quest had ended in failure, which would be a reason for him radiate such smugness.

He waved his Ambassadors away and they shuffled off, their silks fluttering behind them like butterflies. Bookman took a seat at their exit, leaving him and the Chancellor in silence as they glared at each other.

"So, Bookman," the Chancellor said, looking pleased with himself. "What have you come to tell me?"

Bookman could think of a few things he'd like to tell the Chancellor, one of them being: _qu ni-de_, _hun dan_ (4). But for now, Bookman would relish in the fact that swearing was unnecessary and that he has something that would make the Chancellor even angrier than derogatory curses.

He produced the document from his robe pocket and made a show of smoothing it out, laying it on the floor so that the Chancellor could see all four of the signatures on the paper. Instead of his face paling and his smile falling in defeat, the Chancellor continued to smile, much to Bookman's annoyance.

"I've gotten your signatures," Bookman said.

"Oh, but not all of them," the Chancellor replied, tapping his finger on Dakshina's curved script.

"South Shepherd Rune is indisposed as of now. Archive Master Dakshina assumes his position until his health situation betters," Bookman answered easily.

The Chancellor was not going to get him on a technicality like that.

"Hmm," the Chancellor said, still a little too happily.

He was looking over the paper for loopholes, none of which he would find. Bookman was a master at writing binding legal contracts almost as he was a master of history.

"Well, I suppose that you have won," the Chancellor replied after a moment.

Definitely not what Bookman expected; he managed to keep his face from showing his somewhat indignant surprise. If he had just won, then why did the Chancellor look like _he_ had just triumphed?

"However…" the Chancellor continued slowly.

"However, what?" Bookman snapped, breaking his calm façade for a moment. "Are you to hold up your end of the bargain or aren't you?"

"Of course," the Chancellor replied easily. "The brat's yours if you want him that badly."

Something was up. The Chancellor never gave up that easily to anything.

"Then why would you have me perform this time-consuming exercise?" Bookman asked, with a hint of annoyance in his voice as he indicated the document on the floor between them.

"Protocol," the Chancellor answered, with a self-satisfied smirk; Bookman found it exceedingly annoying.

"Then why would you have said brat set up like you did?" Bookman inquired.

The Chancellor's grin slipped for a moment.

"Really. Using a child and manipulating a Shepherd to do your dirty work for you? And all for a brat that you've given up on all too easily? Why does that not add up?" Bookman continued, studying the Chancellor's face for any indication of his true aims.

Nothing significant surfaced on that grizzled, hairy face. If anything, his eyes had become hard as the smile returned.

"Figured it out then, Bookman?" the Chancellor said, not sounding at all surprised.

The old man shifted slightly on the pillows to make himself more comfortable. Bookman held very still and waited for those dark eyes to focus on him again. When they did, the Chancellor continued, somewhat maniacally.

"Yes. I summoned Archive Master Dakshina's apprentice here and told her some _motivating_ information to have her act in my favor. She did just as I asked, I might add, and Rong reacted just as I predicted. Too bad it wasn't enough…"

"What have you against that child?" Bookman asked.

"What have I against him?" the Chancellor repeated; his voice had risen slightly in his anger. "Have I against him? The fact that every young mind in this Order has come to us after meticulous selection and breeding and the one to rise to one of the highest positions in our society is the one that our Archive Master found dying on the streets. What on _earth_ can he have that the others do not? Certainly not intelligence, nor eloquence, nor propriety, nor talent? It violates everything we stand for."

The Chancellor's anger evaporated suddenly and he was smiling cheerfully again.

"However, I am going to allow you to proceed. With a few _stipulations_, of course," he said.

Bookman did not like the emphasis put on the word "stipulations" and remained quiet in response as he waited for the Chancellor to explain his terms.

"As a Bookman, you are to remain impartial," the Chancellor began, obviously loving the sound of his own voice. "But this time, you were swayed and chose who you wanted to become your apprentice before you even interviewed candidates."

The Chancellor paused, perhaps to add to the drama that only he felt at his impending announcement. Bookman, meanwhile, wondered if he could have a cigarette without incurring the wrath of the unstable clan leader.

"I am going to be fair, and let you take possession of this youth that you so chose," the Chancellor said. "But as you let your bias determine your decision, your penalty will be… to add three others to your party."

Bookman couldn't stop the look of annoyance that passed across his face. The Chancellor was smirking again.

"For one year, these four will learn beneath your tutelage. At the end of this period of time, you will return and issue your final decision," the Chancellor declared.

With no regard for the annoyance it would cause the Chancellor, Bookman lit a cigarette and glared at the other man through the smoke. It was bad enough having to put up with _one_ brat, let alone three more. Bookman suddenly remembered why he disliked people so much.

"Fine," Bookman growled stiffly, standing.

"Send me their names," the Chancellor said.

"So you can manipulate them as well?" Bookman asked acidly.

"So I may know of your decisions," replied the Chancellor cheerfully.

"You will have it by this evening, then," Bookman said and left.

He wasn't bitter or anything of the sort, but Bookman hoped the smell of the smoke remained in that room for the rest of his days as Chancellor.

**pqpq**

Bookman had spent the rest of the afternoon pacing up and down the length of his quarters. Having four brats to look after was going to be a challenge that Bookman was not looking forward to. He threw the essays of the original six he had interviewed on the table in front of him.

There were a few of them that possessed potential: the quiet one, the eager one, and the one who (Bookman shuddered to think about it) smiled a lot. They were certainly better than the alternatives (nervous, arrogant, and stupid).

He wrote out letters to each of them, hating it even more as it was put into writing. Bookman lit another cigarette and puffed it irritably. His next year was going to increase his negative disposition toward humanity, he could tell.

**pqpq**

Back down in East, Bookman came across the twins, carrying what appeared to be badminton rackets. Lavi was being pulled along between them.

"We saved him!" the twins exclaimed.

"You should have seen our valor," Manas said, brandishing his racket like a sword.

"Saving him from the evil magician, Bartleby, was a challenge!" Ganesa claimed, swinging his racket.

"A test of courage!" Manas agreed.

"Bravery!" added Ganesa.

"It was more like a hostage trade to me," Lavi said.

Manas smiled sheepishly at Bookman.

"We traded the egg for him," he admitted.

"But it was marvelous!" Ganesa crowed, jumping up and down on one foot.

"Brilliant!" Manas boasted.

"Magnificent," Ganesa added, fencing his brother off with his own racket.

"Muhaha!" they cackled, mock fighting.

"At least I'm not in a sack this time," Lavi said, standing off to the side.

"We'll never do it again if you don't appreciate it," said Ganesa, dodging a particularly nasty slash from his twin.

"Young kids today have no consideration at all!" agreed Manas, sidestepping Ganesa's swing at his waist.

"En garde!" they shouted, lunging at each other.

A battle of intense fury and loud clanking of rackets followed.

"How old are you two again?" Lavi asked.

They just laughed and continued on in their jousting. Lavi put his hand over his face and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" the twins shouted, upon seeing him about to leave.

The two of them skipped merrily over to where Bookman and Lavi were standing. Ganesa put his hand on Lavi's shoulder and Manas leaned his elbow on top of Lavi's head.

"We're all here to bring good news to you!" they sang happily.

"You're not _all_ going to put me in another sack, are you?" Lavi asked, trying to move his head from beneath Mana's elbow.

"It's much better than that!" chorused the two of them, looking at Bookman expectantly.

Bookman pulled a scroll from his sleeve and handed it to Lavi, who opened it with the twins hanging on him and reading over him. The scroll had been delivered to Bookman by an Ambassador after his meeting with the Chancellor. It was an official document that declared Lavi had been enrolled in the clan's educational system.

"We have triumphed!" Manas shouted, jumping up in excitement.

"Indeed we have!" Ganesa agreed.

And then they began to skip around together, badminton rackets forgotten. Lavi was their opposite; standing so still Bookman thought that he might have stopped breathing.

"Is this real?" Lavi asked, skeptically after a moment.

He held it up to the light, as if checking to see if the paper was counterfeit.

"It is. Your status is officially that of a student now," Bookman said.

"But why?" Lavi inquired, looking up. "There has to be something in it for you, am I right?"

Bookman looked him straight in the eye and Lavi stared unflinchingly back at him. It was amazing how keen of perception Lavi possessed.

"You are correct," Bookman said, handing Lavi a second scroll.

It was the one that Bookman had written out earlier that day: the acceptance letter for the apprenticeship slot. Lavi was the only one that he hand delivered it to.

"Then what do you want?" Lavi asked, not opening it.

Bookman looked at him seriously.

"You are going to be my apprentice."

**pqpq**

Oh man, I really had trouble with this ending. I so wanted to write something along the lines of:

Bookman handed the scroll to Lavi, who stared at it without opening it.

"You're a wizard, Lavi," Bookman said.

"I'm a _what_?"

Okay, I'm done. Harry Potter still owns my soul, sorry everyone

---

_(1) Ta ma de _– "fuck me blind" or (lit) "perform a sexual act upon me until I become blind" (You must love the Chinese and their wonderful swears)

_(2) Sacre bleu_ – I'm not really sure what it means, but I think it may be the equivalent to our modern-day "Holy Shit" (the _bloody_ in the middle making it "Holy Fucking Shit"). My grandma says it all the time, which is the only reason I know it. Looking it up, I found that it's an old swear that isn't used very much anymore, but is meant as "a cry of surprise or anger" so…there you go. (French)

_(3) Tres amusant_– literally "three times amusing". If anyone has read the Louise Rennison series (The Confessions of Georgia Nicholson) you will be getting all of this French.

_(4) Qu ni_-de, _hun dan_ – "screw you, bastard"

Darius means "upholder of the good" which is funny, to me anyways.

**Next Time...**

Bookman and his apprentices prepare to leave. And Bookman hates all of them.

**Thank you again for all of the reviews. I really appreciated it and I'll do my best to update more as this story gets moving.**

Dhampir72


	12. The Departure

**Author's Note**: Thanks for all the reviews. I love how everyone seemed to enjoy my terrible "You're a wizard, Lavi" reference. It was so stupid, it was funny, right? Haha, anyways, enjoy...! And excuse the fact that I only proofread this twice...

**pqpq**

"Then what do you want?" Lavi asked, not opening the scroll.

Bookman looked at him seriously.

"You are going to be my apprentice."

Manas (who was in the middle dipping his twin in a ballroom dance) dropped Ganesa on the ground at his words. Lavi got very still again as if he was in shock, but his face was a perfect mask of neutrality. The twins, however, were everything but.

"WHAT?!" they shouted, looking murderous.

Manas was the only one who looked formidable, as Ganesa was still trying to pick himself up from the floor where he had been dropped. The both of them wore looks of anger and astonishment, their faces similar to fish, as their lips had that "O" shape about them.

"Just as I said," Bookman said. "Are you both deaf?"

"HOW COULD YOU?!" the twins yelled.

"We _helped_ you!" Manas said.

"And _not _so you could take Lavi away," whined Ganesa.

"We HATE you!" they cried, looking betrayed.

If the years had not hardened him so, Bookman might have felt badly. "Might" being the key word.

"We're never talking to you ever again!" they said in unison, both of them taking Lavi by one of his arms and pulling him away. "We're filing for divorce!"

Out of all the knowledge Bookman possessed, he could not figure out two things: idiocy and those twins.

Perhaps because they were one in the same.

**pdpd**

The following day, Bookman's brats assembled before him in East Library. Cheerful, Eager, and Quiet kept giving strange looks to Lavi, who was considerably shorter than the rest of them. Lavi was doing well holding his own against them, returning their glances with a steady, untrusting stare.

"As you have all been informed," Bookman began, indicating the scrolls that Eager and Quiet were holding. "Each one of you has been selected to compete for the title and seat of forty-ninth Bookman."

"Compete?" asked Cheerful; Bookman turned his attention to him and internally smirked as he began to fidget uncomfortably under his gaze.

"Due to unforeseen circumstances, four of you instead of one were chosen," Bookman replied.

"Why?" Eager asked bluntly.

Bookman fixed his stare to focus on him.

"I don't believe that is any of your concern," Bookman said icily; Eager shrunk back a little from the tone of his voice. "And when you pose a question to me, you will call me either _sensei_, or _shishou_. I will not tolerate disrespect. Do you all understand?"

They all nodded, somewhat fearfully. Maybe handling brats wasn't so hard after all. Put the fear of bodily harm and a slow torturous death into them and they become as complacent as lambs.

"Very well," Bookman continued. "By the end of one year's time, one of you will become my successor and the remaining three will return here."

"You're serious about him, then?" Eager asked, nodding in Lavi's direction before adding: "Sensei."

Lavi gave him a withering glare; a decent one for someone with only one eye.

"I most certainly am, as I do not joke," Bookman answered coldly. "Now do let me continue."

Eager made quick work of closing his mouth.

"To secure your spot as my successor you must prove to me in one year's time that you are capable of handling the responsibilities and displaying the qualities necessary to become a Bookman," he continued. "This means impressing me."

Bookman made sure to look formidable, so the brats would know that he was very hard to impress. Eager shut his mouth before he could ask another question.

"You will be respectful at all times. I will tolerate no cheek from any of you. Impertinence is one of the most revolting traits a person can have. It is unacceptable," Bookman said, being certain to focus most of his gaze on the eager one.

Bookman walked back and forth slowly in front of them.

"You will be stoic, observant, invisible," Bookman continued, this time aiming his stare at Cheerful.

It truly was a sadistic pleasure watching them writhe under his stare. And Cheerful wasn't even considered a child: in his twenties, Bookman thought.

"You will meticulously document what you observe. You will not be overcome with emotion at any time," Bookman listed. "We will be doing a lot of traveling. I do not want to hear that you are tired or hungry. You will sleep when I tell you to sleep and eat when I tell you to eat. Know that if you lag behind, you will be left behind. Any questions?"

They all shook their heads obediently and Bookman gave them an expectant glare.

"No, _shishou_," they responded.

"Follow the instructions I gave you," Bookman said, turning his back on them. "And get out of my sight."

The four of them scampered off.

Brats. All of them.

**pdpd**

Bookman had written that all of them were to go to West and be fitted for their uniforms and cloaks. They were to acquire footwear and packs there as well. West handled what some might call the aesthetics, making sure that people matched and whatnot, Bookman presumed.

In the meantime, Bookman went down to South to order scrolls for his charges. He mentally cringed at the plural form of the word.

"I finished it with a thicker cloth border so it won't rip or fray," Abel said, pulling the new Archive Scroll from a nearby shelf.

Bookman had no idea how such a sickly looking man could lift such a heavy scroll. Four more identical ones were then placed next to it, although they were significantly smaller than Bookman's.

"I heard through the grapevine that you've got four apprentices," said Abel with a small smile. "Figured I'd go ahead. They're not as nice of quality, but it's only for a year, correct?"

Bookman nodded and thanked him, taking his scroll from the counter. Abel said that he would send word up to West for the brats to come and collect theirs, which was good. Bookman was already in a foul mood; he didn't need a sore back as well.

On his way back up to North to deposit his scroll, Bookman came across Manas and Ganesa loitering in the hallway. They looked as if they were waiting for him. Bookman felt fortunate that they didn't appear hostile.

"Heya, Bookman," they began, with their usual cheery voices.

"What are you up to now?" Bookman asked, a bit cautiously.

"Nothing," they answered unconvincingly.

Bookman raised an eyebrow at them. He didn't trust those twins as far as he could throw the two of them at the same time.

"We wanted to know—"

"If you'd like to be one of the first people to use—"

"Our wonderful—"

"Amazing—"

"Completely useful—"

"And simple—"

"New invention!"

This sounded awfully familiar, not to mention a little ominous.

"And what, pray tell, is this new invention of yours?" Bookman inquired

They grinned.

**pqpq**

Back in East, Bookman found himself in the twin's office again. A large Komodo dragon was tied to one of the handles of a filing cabinet in the corner. It was scratching against the glass of the tank that held the rude gnome-like creature.

"Oi, Chloe! Stop it and leave Hodgins alone!" one of the twins growled; the large lizard looked at him somewhat sheepishly while the gnome shook its middle finger at all of them.

Meanwhile, the other brother had gone over to his desk and sat down, trying to look as important as possible. His twin mimicked him, seating himself at his desk nearby.

_Pompous Brits_, Bookman thought.

"We are here to tell you about the most wonderful—"

"Amazing—"

"Completely useful—"

"And simple new invention, yes, I am aware of this," Bookman interrupted them, setting one end of the heavy scroll down by his foot irritably.

"Did you hear that, Manas?" Ganesa asked.

"I certainly did," Manas replied.

"He doesn't love us after all," they cried.

Now able to tell them apart, Bookman took his time looking annoyed at both them separately.

"I guess we shouldn't show him our wonderful—"

"Amazing—"

"Completely—"

Bookman got ready to turn and walk out the door.

"Oh, fine!" Manas grumbled.

He shuffled some papers and books around on his desk, searching the cluttered surface for something hidden. Ganesa aided him, mostly throwing things back into the small areas that Manas managed to clean off.

"Aha!" Manas exclaimed, knocking a stack of important looking documents off the corner of the desk; Chloe the Komodo dragon slipped off of her leash and sauntered over to the papers strewn about the floor.

"And here it is! Are you ready?" asked Ganesa.

"Get on with it, you two," Bookman said, annoyed.

"Ta-dah!" they cheered.

Manas held up what appeared to be a black drink coaster.

"What is that supposed to be?" Bookman asked.

The twins looked scandalized.

"Why this is our wonderful—"

"Amazing—"

Bookman took up his scroll and made for the door.

"Bloody fine, then," Manas growled in defeat.

"Can't even appreciate a couple of fine chaps trying to help you out," Ganesa sniffed, clearly affronted.

"With a drink coaster," Bookman replied. "How helpful."

"Haha!" Manas shouted, jumping up and pointing at Bookman as if he had finally caught him doing something scandalous.

"It's no ordinary drink coaster!" Ganesa said, taking on the same sort of announcer voice as Manas.

"It is in fact—" said Manas, picking up a large coffee mug on his desk that had been holding quills.

He emptied it out noisily and showed Bookman the empty inside of the cup. It was about the size of someone's fist and the coaster fit snugly at the bottom; the thing was smaller than Bookman had thought it to be.

"—the secret to our success!" Ganesa finished.

Manas shook out his left hand and then put it inside the mug; it went clear up to his elbow. It was astonishing.

"He looks impressed!" Ganesa said.

"And to think that it was just some drink coaster!" said Manas with a grin.

They both laughed simultaneously. It was quite odd to see Manas's arm stop at the elbow inside of a flowered cup, though it strangely suited him somehow (the feminine mug, not the missing limb).

"You've found a way to bend space?" Bookman asked, not at all scientific enough to know what exactly it was.

"In a sense," Manas shrugged, his left arm looking odd still inside the orchid covered mug.

"We've found a way to utilize what space we weren't using in relation to what amount of space we were using. Inversely, we found that we could extend this used space by using what space we weren't occupying. It was really quite simple," Ganesa explained.

"Of course we had to do a lot of scientifical research and whatnot, plus find a portion of space that we could use as a constant plane. But after all of that, we found out that connecting two points in space is relatively easy. I wonder why we didn't think of it before…" Manas continued.

Bookman was debating on whether or not to inform Manas that 'scientifical' was not a word, but decided not to, as it wouldn't make any difference.

"Well, someone had figured it out before us," Ganesa said, looking annoyed. "We think so, anyway. When we were experimenting, we must have been crossing someone else's line in the dimension parallel to ours because we kept pulling these chickens out of no where…"

So that's where the chickens came from. Another mystery solved.

"Anyway," Manas began, pulling his arm out of the mug. "We wanted to give you one, now that they're perfected."

"You won't pull chickens out of a pocket in space, is what we mean," Ganesa clarified.

Bookman took the device from Manas and looked it over. How could something so small have that many capabilities?

"We figure that you could use it during your travels," Manas said. "And since you're technically storing your possessions elsewhere, there's no extra weight."

"Ta-dah!" they sang.

"Aren't you happy?" Manas whined, when Bookman didn't say anything.

"Or thankful?" Ganesa added.

"At all?" the two of them cried, looking close to tears.

"Should I come back later?"

They all turned to look at the door. Lavi had poked his head into the office and was staring at them curiously.

"Laviiii," the twins whined. "Bookman is being mean to us!"

"We were just trying to be nice and give him one of our wonderful—"

"Amazing—"

"Completely useful and simple new inventions?" Bookman and Lavi finished.

"Do not mock us!" they shouted.

"They gave you a coaster too, huh?" Lavi asked, looking at the disk in Bookman's hand.

"You have one as well?" Bookman inquired; he nodded.

"Manas and Ganesa gave me one a little while back. They're dead useful, I'll tell you that," Lavi answered.

"You like it? You really like it?" the twins asked eagerly.

"Of course. Except for that one time…with the chicken…" Lavi said, trailing off a bit. "Oh, and by the way: Chloe appears to be eating your dissertation."

Manas and Ganesa's faces became horrified, identical masks as they discovered their Komodo dragon eating the papers on the floor.

"No! I finally put all the apostrophes in!" Ganesa cried, trying to gather up as many papers as he could from the floor.

"_Qing jin_ (1), Lavi," Manas said, ignoring his brother trying to save their research.

Lavi appeared a bit apprehensive, but slid into the room and closed the door behind him. He was wearing his new cloak, dark sienna fabric with a simple linear design in gold and navy.

Manas made a noise in the back of his throat and pulled Ganesa up by the collar of his haori. Ganesa made a similar sound to the one his brother made. They looked like they might cry again.

"Our little boy is growing up!" they cried, moving across the room to give him a hug.

"I'm leaving," Lavi said, appearing somewhat frightened regarding their display of affection.

He vanished before they could get their arms around him. They let out matching sighs at his departure.

"He really is…leaving…" Ganesa murmured sadly.

"You'll take care of him, won't you, Bookman?" Manas asked.

The two of them were looking at him seriously.

"Of course," Bookman replied.

Why was it that everyone believed him to be some sort of child abuser that they had to continuously ask him this question?

"And we mean _take care of him_," Ganesa said sternly.

"It is my duty," answered Bookman.

"No," Manas said.

"It is your privilege," they said, voices devoid of all humor.

"You treat him well, you hear?" said Manas, a bit threateningly as he shook his fist at Bookman.

"Or else…" added Ganesa.

"We'll kill you," they said, as sweet as poisoned honey.

Bookman stared at the two of them, knowing that they were perfectly capable of committing such an act without regret.

"_Dong ma_ (2)?" the two of them asked.

"_Dang ran_ (3)," Bookman replied.

**pqpq**

A day later, it came time for Bookman and his brats to begin to leave. Before they could be on their way, the Chancellor conducted the Departing Ceremony for all of them in the banquet room closest to the Doors. It was a boring procession of rotating speaking and silence, with the occasional break to eat something.

Present at the Ceremony were a number of familiar faces: the Chancellor (the git), Bookman (of course), the Four Shepherds (Dakshina filling in for South Shepherd Rune), his three new apprentices (unfortunately), Lavi (inattentive, possibly comatose), and the twins (why they were there was anyone's guess).

When it was all said and done and the Chancellor had heard himself talk enough, conversation broke out between the occupants of the room. It was mostly the Shepherds trying to instill some last minute reminders of conduct into the thick sculls of Bookman's brats. If they didn't know already, they weren't ever going to know.

Beside him, Manas and Ganesa were taking turns flicking Lavi until he woke from his stupor.

"So, before you go, Lavi," said one of the twins.

"We wanted to know," said the other.

"How do you tell us apart?" they inquired curiously.

"What do you mean?" Lavi asked, tilting his head to the side.

"You're the only one who can tell the difference between us," one of them explained.

"We want to know how you do it," the other added.

"Well, it's simple really," Lavi replied, looking between the two of them.

"How?" they asked.

"Because you're not completely identical," Lavi answered.

The twins looked shocked for a moment and then a little confused.

"Not identical?" asked one twin, facing his brother.

"Not identical?" said the other.

"You're _lying_!" they cried.

"Nope. You're one freckle short, Ganesa," Lavi said.

"How can this be?!" asked one.

"It can't be true!" said the second.

"_Fei hua_ (4)!" they shouted.

"Oh, not to mention that Manas's voice is deeper than yours, Ganesa," Lavi continued, not listening to their whining.

"Surely not!" said one of them.

"Absolutely not," said the other.

Listening, Bookman could tell that one of them did have a slightly deeper voice than the other. He was still looking for an aberration in their freckles and couldn't find the spare.

"And your personalities also differ as well," Lavi said thoughtfully, looking up.

"Ridiculous!" they answered confidently.

"Fine, then. Don't believe me," Lavi mumbled, scratching at the band of his eye patch that went over his nose.

Before the twins could continue, the Chancellor had risen and everyone quieted. No wonder the man was so pompous: a whole room would become silent in his presence.

"The last part of our Ceremony is the Giving. Shepherds, if you would please rise," the Chancellor said.

The Four Shepherds stood and took their places at the front of the room. It was then that four Ambassadors entered, each carrying a small box in their perfect hands. They stood behind each of the Shepherds and waited, beautiful and silent.

"Apprentices," the Chancellor continued, making sure to put a special emphasis on the plural (most likely to annoy Bookman). "Please rise."

The brats stood. Bookman could see that Manas and Ganesa were taking turns tugging on Lavi's cloak to annoy him. Idiots.

"North Shepherd Darius, you may begin," the Chancellor said.

Darius straightened up a bit in importance and smoothed out his immaculate robes.

"Nirav," he said, beckoning forward the quiet one to him.

The fair-haired boy walked up to where the North Shepherd stood, bowing his head in respect. So the quiet one was Nirav, how fitting.

"A Gift from the North: epitome of stability and purpose. North bestows upon you, Nirav, member of our Noble House, the Gift of Direction. May it guide you well in your travels."

Opening the case that the Ambassador held for him, Darius produced a beautiful brass compass and presented it to Nirav. The eager one made a small noise of appreciation. Bowing, Nirav thanked Darius before returning to his place at the table.

"East Shepherd Enoch," the Chancellor prompted, after Darius finished.

Enoch puffed out his chest somewhat, trying to look taller in comparison to the North Shepherd standing next to him. It was sadly in vain. At least Enoch had one thing going for him: his robes matched today.

"Tarak," Enoch said, and the tall one made his way to the East Shepherd.

The happy, twentysomething apprentice was smiling as he usually did, although maybe a bit more today.

"A Gift from the East: bringer of the dawn and the age of intellect. East bestows upon you, Tarak, member of our Enlightened House, the Gift of Recovery. May it keep you well in your travels," Enoch said, opening his box.

Inside the velvet lined box, there lay a small bottle of crimson liquid. As Tarak thanked Enoch for the gift, Manas and Ganesa twittered excitedly, although quietly next to Lavi.

"That elixir will cure any poison!" one of them said.

"It's almost better than the philosopher's stone!" said the other.

"Only it's not," they concluded together.

Dakshina sent them an evil glare and they hushed with a hiss like they had just been burned.

"South Shepherd D-Dakshina," the Chancellor stuttered slightly over the Indian woman's name.

She straightened up, dignified among her male peers.

"Lavi," she said, keeping her face a perfect mask devoid of any emotion she might be feeling.

When he came to stand before her, Bookman noticed that she wouldn't look directly at the boy.

"A Gift from the South: protector of the hidden history of the world. South bestows upon you, Lavi, member of our Ancient House, the Gift of Recordation. May it serve you well in your travels," Dakshina said, in a clear and powerful voice.

Upon opening her case, one could see that there was a large, leather-bound journal inside. Next to it laid an elegant eagle feather quill and a brass inkwell. Accepting the case with thanks, Lavi returned to his seat. Manas and Ganesa immediately began poking and prodding him to see his gift.

"And West Shepherd Rong," the Chancellor finished, looking to the Chinese man.

"Chi," Rong called; the eager one scampered over to him

"A Gift from the West: keeper in the way of the arts. West bestows upon you, Chi, member of our Valiant House, the Gift of Defense. May it protect you well in your travels," Rong said, as strongly as Dakshina.

Inside his case lay an ornate dagger inlaid with precious stones which he presented to the dark haired boy. He accepted it before returning to his place at the table.

All of the items presented were tradition in the Clan to the successor of the one known as Bookman. All four gifts were symbolic of the journey a Bookman would take in his life and they would aid him in his travels for the rest of his days. However, each of his apprentices was presented with only one of the four gifts, respectable to their House. The one to last through the year would become the owner of all four.

Bookman gave the Chancellor a look. How clever.

"The Giving is complete," the Chancellor said, with a slight smirk in Bookman's direction. "The Leaving will be tomorrow morning at 0600."

**pqpq**

The next morning at exactly 0559, Bookman found himself waiting by the Doors. He had Rong and Darius for company, along with the silent Door boys, which meant there was absolutely no conversation between them. Not only were the brats not there, but Dakshina and Enoch were missing as well. Bookman found it exceedingly irresponsible when people were late in groups.

Their attention focused on the door when it was slid open. Lavi entered the large foyer, looking as if he had just rolled out of bed; his hair was sticking up in a cowlick on one side of his head. Upon noticing the three of them standing there, he appeared somewhat confused as he glanced around the room, probably looking for the others.

"It's about time you got here, boy!" Rong barked, making Lavi jump.

The West Shepherd must have seen his debt as repaid, and was making this known by being his usual, antagonistic self. Rong glared at the boy until Lavi began to try and flatten his unruly hair with his hand. The sound of heavy footfalls gained their attention again.

"We're not late!"

At the same time as that cry, the door was slid open with so much force that it nearly broke. The other three brats were there, panting beneath their heavy traveling packs and cloaks. Dakshina and Enoch were behind them, appearing as if they had just run a marathon themselves. Bookman could also see Manas and Ganesa lagging along behind the group. Darius pompously looked at his pocket watch.

"Yes, I suppose that you aren't late," he said, sniffing haughtily.

They all looked relieved. Enoch and Dakshina moved their way through the group toward Bookman and the other two Shepherds. The three brats glared at Lavi's small bag with disdain, shifting their heavy packs on their backs. But then they all looked rather smug, as if they knew something he didn't; Lavi made sure to return the gesture right back. They all thought that Lavi was a fool for not packing enough things, not knowing that both he and Bookman had the twins' special invention lightening their loads. It was almost an unfair advantage. Almost.

"The Chancellor isn't coming to see you off," Enoch explained, looking at Bookman and his apprentices in turn; the twins grinned at each other.

"He said something along the lines of good luck—" said one, mimicking the Chancellor.

"Have fun—" added the other, also taking on a self-righteous tone.

"And good riddance!" they said, giving a small wave to them.

Bookman could have sworn that Dakshina muttered: "He would" under her breath.

"So," Enoch continued, as if there hadn't been any interruption. "We are to say adieu."

The Shepherds then went to their students to say their final farewells. Dakshina pulled Lavi aside, far away from everyone to speak with him privately. Meanwhile Rong was giving the eager one, Chi, stern directions in heavy Chinese and Darius was preaching prolixly to Nirav about something or another. Bookman couldn't hear what Enoch was saying to the happy fellow, Tarak, but he was gesticulating ridiculously which amused Bookman greatly.

While all of this was going on, the twins moped about together, looking like sad puppies that had been kicked too many times. They kept pacing around near where Dakshina was still talking to Lavi, as if they wanted to go over but were too afraid of Dakshina's wrath to chance it.

Chi's pep talk was done and he stood, rigidly still across from Rong and waited. Enoch was through waving his arms about and Tarak joined them near the Doors. Darius was still going on about whatever it was he was talking about, Nirav nodding every now and then to show that he was pretending to listen.

Bookman kept his eye on Dakshina and Lavi in the corner and the other on the twins, who were still pacing up and down the length of the foyer. He saw the Indian woman stroke Lavi's hair in a motherly fashion, her mask broken by the force of raw emotion she was experiencing; Bookman could not see Lavi's expression.

Darius was almost through, because he was straightening himself up as his voice rose higher. As if that were her cue, Dakshina pulled Lavi to her in a small hug before letting him go to stand up. The twins took this as an invitation to intercept Lavi from her, the both of them hugging him at the same time so it was all just a mess of limbs and red hair.

Nirav finally escaped Darius's speech, positioning himself with the other three apprentices by the wall. They all watched the twins affectionately maul Lavi with annoyance. Bookman could hear them muttering amongst themselves.

"He's just a kid."

"Ridiculous."

"I can't believe that _he's_ competition."

"He'll probably be crying at night wanting to come back."

"Probably."

"Hmph."

"There's no way he could be _that_ smart."

"I wonder what _he_ sees in _him_."

Bookman gave them all a glare that silenced them completely. It was during this time that Manas and Ganesa released Lavi, who was as red as his hair with embarrassment. The twins and the Shepherds stood a little distance away from where Bookman and his apprentices were in front of the Doors.

The Door boys opened both of the grand mahogany Doors for them. A gray dawn greeted their eyes and the dim light shone into the dark entryway.

"Let us go," Bookman said.

His apprentices began to move toward the outside, looking back at their masters who waved encouragingly at them. Before they had completely stepped out, the sliding door to the foyer opened, and Bookman could see Hans and Bartleby also bidding them departure, the two of them waving white, lacy handkerchiefs.

"Adieu! Adieu!" they cried, along with the twins, who had immediately set upon mimicking their femininity.

Bookman saw Lavi shield his eye from them, as if he couldn't bear to watch the display. He did notice, however, that Lavi gave them all a little wave before they began to make their way down the slanted, slippery steps away from Clan headquarters.

And so began their journey.

**pqpq**

My favorite part of this whole bit:

_They all nodded, somewhat fearfully. Maybe handling brats wasn't so hard after all. Put the fear of bodily harm and a slow torturous death into them and they become as complacent as lambs_.

Does anyone see Bookman channeling Severus Snape here? Even though, as we all know, Deathly Hallows _didn't happen at all_. I'm still in denial, leave me be…

_!) qing jin_ – "come in"

_2) dong ma_? – "understand?"

_3) dang ran_ – "understood"

_4) fei hua!_ – "nonsense!"

Nirav means "quiet" in Sanskrit

Tarak means "protector" in Sanskrit

Chi means "young energy" in Chinese, dir. Cantonese

**Next Time**: Bookman finds out just how annoying it is to have four apprentices.

Har, har, har. Mine is an EVIL laugh. I make you suffer, Bookman. But he might get something nice.

Maybe.

I just baked cookies, so…HAVE A COOKIE, BOOKMAN!

**I am almost to the triple digits in reviews! Push me to 100 and I will love you all forever! **(this is begging, peeps)

Dhampir72


	13. Starting Four

**Author's Note (the thanks!)**: A big thank you to everyone! I've finally reached over 100 reviews! I'm so glad that people are enjoying this story, because I thought that maybe I wasn't writing well enough. But from your comments, I think I can say that apparently I'm doing very well. Very glad to serve all of you, and here is your new chapter to show my thanks!

Sorry it took so long to update, BTW. I was in a drama production and I had all that holiday stuff you have to do, not to mention a huge writer's block. Writer's block ONLY on THIS chapter. Lame, I know. But (I think) I somehow got this _go se_ to make coherent sense….so please enjoy it!

**A note to someone no one knows, but I do**: KITSUNE-CHAN! Look for the joke from The Nerd and giggle madly at my awesomeness!

**pqpq**

The air was cold, crisp and clear as it always was so early in the morning. Far off in the distance, Bookman could see Qomolangma, the tallest mountain in the world, peeking above all the others. Low clouds hung around her summit, obstructing her snow covered peak from view. Bookman heard his apprentices twittering amongst themselves about one thing or the other, their voices carrying in the snow covered, mountainous valley. Bookman toyed with the idea of telling them that they might cause an avalanche, just so they would be quiet.

Instead, he opted to ignore them and lead them down the path into the village below. If they traveled accordingly and nothing came up, there was a good chance that they would reach Gurkha or Baglung sometime in the next week. Nepal was too dangerous at the present time to be carting around a group of children, especially in the east.

If Bookman had had just one apprentice to worry about, he would have had no problem heading to the more dangerous parts of the continent, like east Nepal and southern China. However, he had four brats to look after and only two eyes to watch them. It wasn't a good mix, especially in war torn countries where everything was unpredictable.

And though their presence was annoying to him and Bookman wouldn't have minded if he had less than four, he would never knowingly or willingly allow harm to come to a child. Bookmen were supposed to be indifferent and unfeeling, however Bookman had a very strong opinion when it came to children being unnecessarily hurt or killed in war. There was just something about seeing an innocent life end before it even truly began that didn't sit well with him.

So, Bookman planned to take up somewhere in Indonesia. There was certainly a lot going on there currently, mostly having to do with the British occupation over what they called the Honourable East India Company. It would be safe enough and a decent beginning experience for all of them before delving deeper into the clandestine life of a Bookman.

Bookman decided on taking the Inner Terai, the heavily forested area at the base of the Himalayas. It would take a few days to reach Nawakot, but from there they could catch a boat to take them down the Trisuli and Kali Rivers…

A loud snap interrupted his train of thought and Bookman turned around to glare at the troupe following him. The oldest one, who smiled a lot—Tarak—appeared confused and turned around to look at the youngest members of the party. Fair-haired and quiet Nirav looked like he knew but was remaining silent; he kept his cerulean eyes adverted from the others.

That left only Lavi and the member of Rong's house: Chi. Lavi was doing a good job of glaring, considering that his face betrayed an emotion that made Bookman wonder if he had just been slapped. Chi, on the other hand, was smirking slightly, which allowed Bookman to at least know who the antagonist was. At Bookman's glare, the small grin slipped from Chi's face.

"Is there a problem?" Bookman asked, in the tone that made it clear there shouldn't be.

Lavi looked away, rubbing the band of his eye patch while Chi looked the other way, putting his arms behind his head.

"No, shishou," they replied, the both of them obviously lying.

Giving them another hard stare, Bookman turned and they all continued walking. And even though it was quiet, he didn't miss Chi's short, triumphant laugh from behind him.

Brat.

**pqpq**

Once into the Terai, it became a lot warmer and after shrugging out of their warm clothes, they continued on in silence. Five minutes of glorious quiet later, Tarak began to speak.

"Let's play a game," he proposed, clapping his hands together.

"Let's not," Bookman said.

And it was silent again.

**pqpq**

"Hey! Look at that!" Tarak shouted suddenly.

"It's a marsh, you idiot," Chi said.

"I know, but loo—WAH!"

"No! Let go—AH!"

There were two thick splashes which signified that they had fallen into the swamp.

Idiots.

**pqpq**

When Tarak and Chi managed to pull themselves out of the muck, they went to clean up. In the meantime, Bookman smoked because he desperately needed it and engaged in a glaring contest with a rather mean looking rock. Apparently Nirav and Lavi entered a similar contest, only with something alive and a lot more lethal.

"I think it's poisonous," Lavi said.

"No, I don't think it is," Nirav replied.

Bookman turned around to see Nirav poking a stick behind a rock he and Lavi were looking over.

"But it has a fan. It must be poisonous," Lavi was saying.

The sound of hissing and spitting reached Bookman's ears as Lavi and Nirav jumped up on top of the rock to safety. A huge _naja naja_ was slithering on the ground where their feet had just been. It was one of the most venomous snakes in the Terai, and it seemed to be very angry.

Pulling a kunai from his belt, Bookman threw it with perfected skill. The weapon pierced through the huge cobra's neck, pinning it to the rock. The snake writhed in its death throes for a moment before becoming still. The two boys on the rock stared at him in awe as Bookman retrieved his blade. He then went back to his cigarette and resumed glaring at the rock. This whole trip had gone from bad to worse to awful in all of a few hours.

"Whoa…"

Bookman heard Nirav and Lavi sliding off the rock as they whispered back and forth together, like he couldn't hear them.

"He must be a ninja," Nirav said quietly.

"No," Lavi replied.

There was a pause.

"Do you think…?"

"Maybe…"

**pdpd**

When the two idiots who had fallen in the mud finally returned clean, they continued on their way through the Terai. Luckily nothing disastrous happened, unless one counted that Chi's mood had worsened, which meant that his clashes with Lavi had escalated.

Bookman found out what the noise was that he had heard before: Chi going up behind Lavi, or on his blind side, and snapping the band of his eye patch. It sounded painful; before Bookman could go back there to straighten things out (possibly with violence, but just a little) Tarak stepped in and kept Lavi next to him. Bookman wasn't sure if his oldest apprentice was tired of their antics as well, or if he was trying to keep Lavi from mauling Chi, which he looked about ready to do.

A little after noon, they stopped. It was mostly because Bookman couldn't stand listening to them muttering about how hungry they were. He considered making them wait, but his patience had worn thin with the events of the morning and he didn't want to hear them anymore. Bookman wondered if it was too late to turn around and bring them all back to the Clan.

But then he thought about the Chancellor's face when he found out that he had won and that made Bookman scowl. There was no way that Bookman was going to fold under the Chancellor's will. Instead, he lit another cigarette and smoked angrily in sulky silence. No one bothered him for a while, which was a smart idea.

Continuing on after that, Bookman knew he was on his last nerve. It was obvious that Lavi and Chi were still on bad terms and that Nirav knew why but wouldn't tell. Tarak was now in his own foul mood because he had gotten on the wrong side of one of the rocks Chi kept trying to throw at Lavi. His cheek was bandaged now and he didn't speak or smile, instead spending his time glaring at the two youngest members of the party. At least everyone was quiet.

They were walking through a rather rough patch of the Terai, full of rocks and eroded soil at the base of the mountains, when Bookman felt like he was at the end of his rope (and considering hanging himself with it). It was bad enough that it was a difficult task to get through the stretch and additional distractions were beyond annoying.

It started when Lavi began to continuously fall.

"Walk correctly," Bookman snapped, when he had fallen for the umpteenth time.

Lavi just nodded and stood up, hiding his scraped hands behind his back, as if Bookman hadn't seen them bleeding. The next time Lavi fell, Bookman saw that it wasn't his own fault, but that of Chi, and he couldn't help but to think it wouldn't be so bad for him to go back there and hit both of them upside their heads so they would stop.

It must have been getting to Lavi too, because Bookman saw that the next time Chi went to trip him, Lavi made sure that it was the other boy who fell on the painful stones and not himself. Chi made a fuss at his scraped knees, but Bookman regarded him coldly and told him to keep walking.

They all continued in stony silence, Lavi and Chi still tripping each other every chance they got, until they found themselves in the lush forested part of Terai. The sun was low, so Bookman deemed it acceptable to stop for the night. When Bookman gave them the word, they all slumped with relief at the prospect of quitting for the day.

Lavi and Chi glared at each other, setting their things as far away as possible from one another. Tarak glared at their glaring, which made him look even more dimwitted than he actually was. Nirav was pointedly ignoring all of them, which by default made him look as stupid as Tarak. When Chi started to gather things near him to throw or flick in Lavi's direction, Bookman, tired of that behavior, told him to go and get some wood for a fire.

"I'll go with him," Tarak said, standing. "We wouldn't want something _unfortunate_ to _happen_, now would we?"

Tarak smiled in a way that wasn't very comforting; Chi noticed it too and made a show of bringing his dagger with him. Once they disappeared from sight, Nirav made a noise in his throat and Lavi responded with an acquiescent one.

"Look," Nirav said suddenly, speaking loudly for the first time, "we're not friends."

"Never said we were," Lavi answered, keeping his back to him.

"We're rivals," Nirav continued, as if he hadn't spoken.

"Sounds like fun," replied Lavi.

Nirav, a bit flustered at Lavi's nonchalant response and now aware of Bookman's listening ear, turned around and began to shuffle through his things like he was doing something important. From where he was sitting, Bookman could see that on the other side of their camp, Lavi was wrapping up his shredded, bloody hands with a permanent wince.

When the other two returned from the forest bearing twigs and small logs, Bookman could tell that Tarak was annoyed. Chi, on the other hand, didn't look like he had been put through any sort of hell, so it meant that Tarak hadn't done it correctly after all. That meant someone had to do it. It was time for that 'putting-the-fear-of-God-and-a-slow-death into him' deal.

"Come here," Bookman said, signaling Chi over to him.

The dark haired demon-child scampered over to where Bookman stood. After beckoning Lavi over the same way, his two apprentices were before him, glaring at each other in between glances at Bookman. He cuffed both of the upside their heads to get their full attention, hitting Chi maybe a bit harder than Lavi.

"This nonsense must stop. I will not tolerate it," Bookman said, in a voice that left no room for argument. "You are intellectual rivals and it will remain that way. If there is any more physical violence, _I_ will be the one to finish it."

From across their camp, Bookman could have sworn he heard Nirav whisper to Tarak something about being a ninja.

"Do you both understand?" he continued.

"Yes, shishou," they answered.

"Put all the bad blood between you, elsewhere. Shake hands," Bookman said.

It took them a moment, staring each other down, before Chi thrust out his hand. Lavi grudgingly took it and they shook hands, Chi squeezing a bit too hard on the redhead's bandaged wounds. When they began to try to break each other's fingers, Bookman dragged them apart

This whole thing was getting ridiculous.

Bookman really hated children.

**pqpq**

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Bookman stayed up to make sure that no one tried anything unusual while the others were asleep. That mainly meant Chi, but Bookman wouldn't admit it. By the dying embers of the fire, Bookman could see that he wasn't the only one awake.

"It is late," Bookman said, with a tone that meant he should be sleeping.

"I know," Lavi answered, turning his head a bit to look in his direction.

The dim light from the fire made his eye glow eerily and the patch that obscured his right eye marred his face like a black burn. He turned his head to look up again.

"I'm just looking," he continued.

Bookman glanced up into the indigo sky where the stars were clearly shining in the night.

"It's so clear I don't even need a telescope," Lavi commented.

A few minutes passed with only the breeze in the trees and the gentle stirring of night life around them and the soft breathing of the others sleeping making any sound.

"Well, good night," Lavi said, turning over on his side.

Bookman said nothing in return to his back, staring at the stars in the sky for a little while longer before going to bed as well.

**pqpq**

Over the next few days, Bookman was glad to find that the altercations between Lavi and Chi had lessened to the point of near nonexistence. They would still glare hostilely at one another, but that was all. It seemed that Nirav had said something to Chi and now the two of them had been walking together more often than not.

Tarak, on the other hand, had taken to walking by himself. Bookman wasn't quite sure what happened, but the oldest of his apprentices wouldn't put himself in the company or position of protector of Lavi any longer, leaving the youngest member of their party to tag along behind all of them alone.

When Bookman headed to the back of their caravan to ask Tarak about this sudden change, he looked so ashamed it was borderline pathetic.

"That kid…that kid's smarter than I am!" Tarak said, anger seeping into his voice like poison.

Although Tarak could be nothing short of a complete imbecile at times, Bookman knew that he had a decent mind capable of intelligent thought. However, it wasn't that much of a surprise to find that Lavi was smarter than Tarak, and it seemed to be an open wound on the older boy's pride.

"I've worked so hard all my life to get to this point and that kid—who just came to the Clan not even a half a year ago; who has never been to a single class; who's younger than me by fifteen _years_—has a mind more educated than mine!"

Lavi had drifted head of them when they began talking, but judging from the way his shoulders hunched up, he had been listening. In front of Lavi, Nirav and Chi were trying to look like they weren't trying to eavesdrop; they were too far away from Bookman and Tarak for there to be a chance that they heard what had been said.

"It's just…not fair…But then again, I guess life isn't," Tarak continued, trying to lighten up his voice at the end.

Bookman didn't reply, as he felt there was no need to. Life had always been unfair and would continue to be unfair. There was always going to be someone better or smarter or richer, either by cheat or natural advantage, and some people would die prematurely who didn't deserve it. That's just how it worked. Life was a cruel and cold world and there was nothing anyone could do to change that.

A nice person would have given Tarak encouraging words, but Bookman had none. And even if he did, he would never have said them.

However, he did allow Tarak to begin a game while they walked (as long as Bookman didn't have to play). Perhaps he had gotten soft, or perhaps he just didn't want to see a grown man cry.

"Let's play 'I Went on a Trip'," Tarak proposed.

"How do you play?" asked Nirav, quietly curious.

"Well, one person names something that begins with the letter 'A' and then the next person with the letter 'B' and so on. For instance: 'I went on a trip and I brought an apple'. You keep adding things and the list keeps growing," Tarak explained, before adding: "It's a memory game."

"Oh, I've played this!" Chi shouted, jumping up and down primitively.

"Okay, good. You start then," Tarak said.

"I went on a trip and I brought…an abacus," Chi answered.

"Good. Nirav?" Tarak prompted.

"I went on a trip and I brought an abacus and…a barometer," Nirav replied.

"Sure. Lavi?"

"I went on a trip and I brought an abacus, a barometer, and a compass," said Lavi.

"Okay. I went on a trip and I brought an abacus, a barometer, a compass, and…a duck," Tarak said.

"A duck?" everyone asked; Bookman was curious too and he hadn't even been playing.

"Well, why not? It starts with a 'D'," Tarak answered.

And no one could argue with him on that.

After about three rounds of the game, Chi and Nirav had lost because they had gotten something wrong, confusing percolator with periscope or something like it. Lavi and Tarak were still playing and Bookman (who could name everything listed in exact order off the top of his head) could tell that Tarak was beginning to struggle to remember everything.

Lavi noticed it too and quite obviously slipped up, mistaking that the third 'G' had been a gramophone when it in fact had been a guillotine.

Needless to say, Tarak was smiling for the rest of the day.

**pqpq**

When they were not far from Nawakot, Bookman explained the rules of engagement.

"As you all know, a Bookman's duty is to record the hidden history of the world," Bookman began, with all of his apprentices sitting there before him with varying degrees of awe or boredom on their faces; he slapped Chi upside the head. "Pay attention."

Then he began to pace up and down before them with slow, deliberate steps on each word he spoke.

"And with this duty, the Bookman himself becomes a part of the history he records. This is the history that no one will know and therefore, the Bookman himself becomes lost with his records. Bookmen do not exist; we are mere shadows cast on this world to observe and record and then, finally, die."

A convulsive sort of tremor went down the group at his words.

"Since the Bookman does not exist," he continued, ignoring them, "he has no name, as I do not. A Bookman, therefore, goes by many different names to make up for his non-existent identity and uses it as a mask for the people that he may meet along the way that will remember him as 'someone'. The alias is a necessary tool that a Bookman uses to distance himself from others, and in doing so, it is insured that he shall not be remembered. After all, how can one remember someone who does not exist in the first place?"

Bookman could see flickers of fear and doubt in some of their eyes. But, in a biased way, Bookman was glad to see that not a trace of it could be found in Lavi.

"You," Bookman said, indicating Nirav, "will be Prashant."

Nirav nodded, looking like was trying to commit it to memory as quickly as possible.

"And you will be Satyanarayan," Bookman said, looking at Chi.

He had chosen the name off the top of his head that had the most syllables in it. Bookman was sure that he saw Lavi smirk out of the corner of his eye.

"Satyawhat?" Chi asked.

"Do not make me repeat myself," Bookman replied, turning to Tarak. "You will be Isha."

Tarak also nodded; he appeared glad that it was a simple enough name to remember.

"You will be Agni," Bookman continued, looking at Lavi.

After giving them their aliases, Bookman began to walk up and down before them again as he continued.

"You will have many aliases as a Bookman. Learning to keep a low, almost non-existent profile is essential to the life you pursue. The sooner you learn this, the sooner you take one step forward to becoming my successor as Bookman."

After all, a life of lies takes getting used to.

But he didn't say that aloud.

**pqpq**

By the time they reached Nawakot, it was at the beginning of the second week of their trip. The city was booming with life and trade, so close to the Trisuli River which was a vital part of the economy. People from all over the area normally stopped in Nawakot before continuing on their journey southeast to Kathmandu.

In the busy bazaar, Bookman had quite a time making sure that the entire group was there. He wished that he could just put leashes on all of them, because it would be a lot easier that way.

Chi and Tarak were the worst, because they had a terrible habit of wandering away toward something when it moved, which was everything. Nirav, on the other hand, had a fascination with anything that was shiny. Lavi was the same way with fire. Needless to say, Bookman spent most of his time grabbing the collars of whoever began to wander away, trying at the same time to keep the rest of them from straying towards something in the marketplace.

Once out of the bazaar, it was a different sort of wandering. They would be walking and then all of a sudden, Bookman would realize that he was alone. Turning around, he'd see all of them standing completely still staring at something. It was like this several times with the artists and snake charmers that lined the streets and Bookman had to practically drag them along behind him.

Upon finding lodgings for the night, Tarak insisted that they go to the public baths, which they did. It was just as bad in the bath house because Tarak and Nirav kept pulling Chi along with them to go peek in the women's baths.

"What do you think you're doing?" Bookman growled at them, scaring all three boys back towards the men's baths.

They all laughed awkwardly.

"I, um…dropped my wallet," Tarak tried, like Bookman was going to buy it.

"I highly doubt that," Bookman said.

"Hey, Tarak. Is this yours?" Lavi asked.

Turning around, they saw Lavi standing in front of the screen to the women's baths with Tarak's money pouch in his hand. Tarak laughed nervously and nodded. Before he could make his way over to them, Lavi was assaulted by a group of beautiful women on their way to the house.

"Oh, aren't you cute?" said one of them.

"He is!" another said.

"Where's your _aamaa_ (1)?" asked the third.

"I don't have one," Lavi answered.

Then they all made cooing noises and petted his head, the way women do to children when they felt bad for them.

"Would you like to come and bathe with us then?" asked the second one.

Tarak's jaw dropped in incredulous jealousy.

"_Ho, bhaieechalcha ne_ (2)!" Lavi replied, the women twittering at his cute Nepali.

"Aren't you just adorable!" said one of them, holding out her hand to Lavi.

"_Timro naam ke ho_ (3)?" asked another.

"My name?" Lavi asked and they nodded. "_Mero naam Agni ho_ (4)."

And then the girls began twittering again as they headed into the bath house. Tarak was nearly green with envy and that increased ten fold when Lavi flashed him a grin before disappearing with them behind the screen.

"W-Wh-What? WHY?! WHY IS IT NOT ME?!" Tarak shouted, getting down on his knees where he proceeded to rip out his hair.

"Why are you so mad?" Chi asked, probably too young to understand why men liked women at all.

"Why? WHY? Lavi's going to be in there with a bunch of women! Beautiful, voluptuous, curvy women! And they're all going to be NAKED!" Tarak cried, making motions with his hands for various parts of female anatomy.

"Well, you have to be naked to take a bath, stupid," Chi said.

"And they're going to be bathing each other. Touching each other…so beautiful…" Tarak trailed off, his eyes glassy as he groped at the air.

It was quite embarrassing.

"Why is that good?" Chi continued, clearly not understanding what was so great about the whole thing.

Nirav lost it laughing while Tarak continued to fall under a wave of angst because he lost the "opportunity of a lifetime" to a seven year-old. Meanwhile, Chi just kept asking questions about it, loudly over Tarak's ranting and groping. People were beginning to stare.

Bookman left them to go take a bath in relative peace, hoping maybe he would be able to drown himself and get it over with.

**pqpq**

"So…how was it?" Tarak asked when they all returned to their hotel.

"How was…what?" asked Lavi.

Tarak just glared at him before throwing his arms in the air where he began to gesticulate wildly.

"The BATH! The BATH you had with those GORGEOUS women!" Tarak shouted.

"Oh," Lavi said, looking up. "It was nice."

"NICE?! NICE?! Give me DETAILS!" Tarak cried; Bookman could see Nirav trying not to laugh.

"Well. There were a bunch of ladies in there," Lavi said. "And we took a bath."

"That's all I get? Tell me MORE!" Tarak barked, grabbing Lavi and shaking him a little.

"So you were the pervert outside of the bath house everyone was talking about," Lavi said suddenly.

"Wh-What? ME?! A pervert?" Tarak asked.

"That's what Bhanumati and Kanta and Medhaavi told me when I was helping them get out of their saaris," Lavi answered.

"You helped them UNDRESS?!" Tarak whined, practically crying now. "It's not fair! Why wasn't it ME? It's not FAIR!"

"How old are you again? Five?" Lavi asked, watching the oldest apprentice roll around on the floor in misery; Nirav was positively dying of trying not to laugh.

Chi was still confused.

"What? I still don't get it."

**pqpq**

They were trapped in their hotel room the next day by rain. It was actually quite fortunate that they had made it across one stretch of the Terai without running into any bad weather. Unfortunately, now that the monsoon season was beginning, it meant terrible and potentially dangerous weather for the next few months.

Braving the rain, Bookman had managed to get all of them passage on a boat making its last trip of the season to Baglung. They said that as long as the river wasn't flooded in the morning two days from now, they'd be disembarking.

That left the rest of the day and all of tomorrow for Bookman to sit in a confined space with his four apprentices. He gave them a writing assignment, just to keep them quiet and also to see how they wrote a log. The instructions were simple: for them to write about something that they had seen on the trip that was of historical or scientific importance.

Tarak and Nirav had gotten the table while Chi lay on the floor to do his. He couldn't find Lavi for a moment, but spotted him sitting underneath an end table next to the couch. Bookman sat on the semi-comfortable said couch and observed them. It didn't escape his notice that at every crack of thunder, Lavi gave an almost imperceptible shudder.

As they worked, Bookman observed all of them: appearance, habits, posture.

Chi was young, about fourteen. He hadn't grown tall yet and still had that plumpness in his cheeks that children tended to have. His high brow told Bookman that he was stubborn, as did his slightly upturned nose. But then again, he really didn't need to look at his features to know that unfortunate trait.

Unlike Chi, who had a darker complexion in hair and skin, Nirav was fair. Pure blonde and blue-eyed, with an intense stare when he worked. He sat straight and smart.

Tarak was lounging out next to him. It appeared as if his legs and arms were still too long for him, like he hadn't gotten out of the gawky teenage period of his life. His hair was soft brown, like his eyes. He was even smiling as he worked, which was a bit odd in general and certainly not at all like a Bookman.

Under the nearby table, Lavi sat, curled up slightly. Compared to the others, he was abnormally small. Unlike Chi, Lavi did not have a child's face; it was thinner, like he had spent the better part of his years with a little less than not enough food. Bookman had to ponder just what exactly the injury to Lavi's eye looked like. But as if he had caught him staring, Lavi looked up at him inquiringly for a moment before going back to his essay.

For a while it was quiet except for the scratching of quills and the sound of the rain beating against the dusty windows. But then Tarak had to go and open his mouth, the idiot.

"Let's play a game!" he said.

"Let's not," everyone else answered.

And it was finally quiet again.

**pqpq**

That night, Bookman braved the weather again to go back into the bazaar. There he purchased some tea and some smuggled, but much-needed tobacco from Indonesia. After that, he returned back to the room, dripping wet and hating every moment of it.

The first thing Bookman noticed was the unusual quiet. The front room was empty so he headed to the back. He found it empty, except for Lavi, who was sleeping on the couch under his traveling blanket. Bookman, having no qualms in disturbing his rest, strode over to him and stood there as imposing as possible before speaking.

"Where did the others go?" he asked, keeping the distaste present in his voice.

But Lavi did not stir, even when Bookman prodded him in the shoulder none-too gently. It was then that he realized that there was something wrong with the deep yet raspy way the child was breathing. Lifting his left eyelid, he saw that Lavi's pupil was completely dilated even with the considerable light in the room. Picking up his limp wrist, Bookman felt for a pulse, noting that Lavi's skin was cold and clammy as if he were fever ridden.

Bookman cursed up and down in various languages. Those stupid apprentices had drugged him. Any more and Lavi might have died from an overdose. Still swearing a bit under his breath, Bookman covered Lavi's small, chilled form with the blanket.

Afterwards, he waited.

When the culprits came stumbling in at some ungodly hour in the morning, Bookman let them go to sleep without any interference, resolved to let the alcohol settle a bit. That way, when he woke them up the next morning, they would only wish they were dead.

**pqpq**

Bookman's going to be as mad as a cat thrown in a puddle. Yay! I'm excited anyway…

**Since I enjoy these (probably more than you, but then again, maybe not)**:

This whole thing was getting ridiculous. A punishment was in order.

"Put them in the iron maiden!" Bookman shouted.

"EXCELLENT!" Lavi and Chi shouted, going into mad guitar solos.

(For the people who HAVE seen Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. If not, you should go see it, just to get why this joke is funny. And then you will be…EXCELLENT!)

**pqpq**

_aamaa_ – apparently, this is the Nepali word for "mother" or "mommy"

_Ho, bhaieechalcha ne_ – "Yes, of course!" (Nepali) was Lavi's reply to the beautiful women asking him to take a bath with them. You have to start 'em young, you know?

_Timro naam ke ho?_ – "What is your name?" (Nepali)

_Mero naam Mrigesh ho_ – "My name is"

Since I don't speak Nepali or know much about it, I used a webpage on the internet to help me out. If you speak or know Nepali and I got it wrong, much apologies to you.

**Next Time!**

The numbers drop! Who's getting kicked off the island…erm, I mean Bookman's group? A more serious chapter, I promise.

And if anyone can help me out, I'd love you forever…! I'm looking for some information I can't find **anywhere**. Okay, so in both the manga and anime, Bookman wears these things on his fingertips, like small metal nails. If anyone knows the name for them, I'd really appreciate if you dropped me a note in your review. Cookies and an honourable mention sound nice?

**Dhampir72**


	14. A Trio

**Author's Note**: Thanks for the reviews; I really appreciate everything you have to say! I want to give a big thank you to the people who tried to help me out with my problem last chapter. I have a consensus from all of you that the metal claws are in fact a part of Bookman's Innocence, which means he will get them later in the story. So, thank you to all these people for their time and research, (A.K.A. Wikipedia): **God Of Laundry Baskets**, **Chelsea**, and **Karush**. Also, thank you to the people who had no idea, but offered me alternate solutions: **Yuki-tenshee**, **Nekosaru**, **Resuka Akarii**, and **greenteamoose**.

To the person who made me LOL: **Evrae Valkyrion** who appreciates my research and the prospect of Indonesian history in future chapters. Also for the guess to my question: Bookman's claws "have something to do with a manicure." Tee hee.

Another big thanks to**xRequiemxofxStardustx** who marathoned this fanfiction and completely inflated my ego with a nice review.

Also thank you to everyone else, just for being kind enough to take five seconds and review: **BlueFox of the Moon**, **Tears Falling Freely**,**Zenbon Zakura**, **AnimeM22**, **Lemon Wine**, and (my kitsune friend) **Kyree**.

And now that the Thanking Season is over, it's on with the chapter! Enjoy!

**pqpq**

Dawn came early, a bit gray and misty, but with just enough sunlight to make it painful for his slumbering apprentices when Bookman threw the curtains open. He also made sure to wake them with the terrible sound of throwing some metal silverware inside of a tin pail that had been sitting by the door. They started awake, clutching their heads with varying degrees of pain on their slightly green faces. Dumping the silverware out on the nearest table, Bookman shoved the pail under the youngest of the three before he could vomit on the floor.

"I hope you all had an eventful night," Bookman said, slightly louder than his normal speaking voice.

They just moaned, the youngest retching in response.

"Don't look pathetic. You all deserve it," Bookman continued, coldly.

He made sure to glare especially nastily at each one of them in turn.

"Was your night of gallivanting around the city enjoyable?" he asked.

The response was some more groaning and head clutching and vomiting from the trio strewn about on the floor.

"Certainly it must have been. And if it wasn't, then it's about to get worse," Bookman continued, ignoring all their actions completely.

"How can it get worse…?" Tarak moaned with his hands over his eyes to block out the dim sun.

"Believe me," Bookman said, leaning forward a bit, "it can always get worse."

"Would it help if we said…we were sorry…shishou?" Nirav asked quietly, his eyes slightly unfocused.

"Would 'sorry' have covered it if you had killed Lavi?" Bookman asked, somewhat nastily. "You could have overdosed him."

"We just gave him a little..." Nirav answered weakly.

"I don't care if you only gave him whiff," Bookman replied, making Nirav shrink away from either him or his voice. "It is the point that you deliberately made a substance of a dubious nature and gave it to a person with the intent to debilitate them. That is considered poisoning, did you know that?"

They all just continued moaning and groaning, obviously too hungover to think properly and understand his large words. It was horribly pathetic and although there was some sort of pleasure in making them suffer whilst in this state, Bookman would rather have them trembling in fear of his wrath whilst sober. It would be more effective that way, he presumed.

Since he hadn't planned on making them suffer (in that sense) all day, Bookman had taken the liberty of going out earlier in the cold morning and picking up a few essentials. He made them each a disgusting concoction of milk, hot spice, and raw egg. If his anger wasn't enough to keep them from consuming alcohol ever again, maybe the drink would.

After they managed to choke it down and they all began to sober up somewhat, Bookman let the full force of his anger out on them. It was a quiet, controlled anger, but anger none the less, and it made them all shrink back as if Bookman were striking them with a club adorned with rusting nails.

"What did you give him?" Bookman asked, once he had chewed them out for the better part of an hour.

Tarak handed him a small book, dog eared and with stained pages. Just looking at the author (Kolkhis), Bookman knew without even glancing through it that Lavi was going to come out of his coma-like state with a migraine the size of Europe.

"You can't redeem yourselves," Bookman said, tossing the book back to Tarak. "But you can try to."

"What's the point if we can't—" Chi began, but Nirav and Tarak both put their hands over his mouth to shut him up.

Bookman ignored them and pulled out some parchment, writing a few things before tearing it into slips. He handed each slip to one of the boys in front of him with a few rupees each.

"Go and find these things. Return here once you're done," Bookman said. "Be prepared for the log work I'm going to give you, as you are looking at about six feet of parchment."

They all made pained faces that had nothing to do with their fading symptoms of intoxication as they headed out the door, Chi taking his pail of vomit with him at Bookman's indicated glare.

"Fucking kids…" Bookman growled, leaving as well.

He found a small alcove on the main floor that peeked into a small, overrun garden. There he smoked, watching the gray clouds in the sky swirl and begin accumulate ominously. Hopefully the weather wouldn't turn foul too quickly and they would be able to continue on their way, staying a step or two ahead of the nastier monsoons the season normally began with. When Bookman was through, he went back up to the room.

Figuring that he better make sure Lavi was still alive, Bookman went into the back room where his redheaded apprentice was curled up on the couch. Lavi was breathing, which was always a good sign, and Bookman picked up his small wrist to feel his pulse. It was stronger than before and it took Bookman a moment to realize that it was because Lavi was awake, staring at him quietly with one tired green eye.

"I thought everyone left," he said softly as Bookman released his wrist.

Bookman caught the tone and intended meaning in his voice. _I thought everyone had left _me. It was disconcerting that Lavi would think such a thing, but Bookman knew he could offer him no comfort. No words that would make him think he was wanted or cared about. He couldn't let him _want_ like that if he were to become a Bookman.

Because Bookmen couldn't have emotions.

"An inaccurate observation. Why would we leave our things?" Bookman replied, purposefully not looking at Lavi as he spoke.

"Of course," was Lavi's answer, as if he hadn't expected anything more.

"Of course," Bookman repeated.

It was quiet for a moment.

"Where did everyone else go?" Lavi asked.

"They are out, learning the errors of their misguided ways," Bookman answered.

"Oh," said Lavi, and after a minute or two, "is that why my head hurts?"

"It's an after affect of the drug they gave you," Bookman said.

"Oh," he said again.

"Do your best to sleep it off. I've sent the idiots to get some ingredients for a remedy," Bookman replied.

He could have sworn that a small smile flickered on Lavi's lips for a moment before he pulled the blanket up closer to his chin and nodded.

**pqpq**

It was sometime later when the door opened and Bookman looked up from the provisions he had been reorganizing in his pack. Nirav stood in the doorway, white as a sheet and covered in mud, his blue eyes wide with shock.

Before Bookman could even ask what was wrong, Tarak came in behind Nirav, looking pleased with himself.

"I've gotten it!" he said excitedly, holding up a small sack before looking at the door. "Why's the door open anyways?"

Then he looked down and at Nirav, who Bookman was also looking at. It took a second for him to realize that it wasn't only mud that covered the fair-haired child.

"Is that…blood?" Tarak asked; his voice was higher than normal.

Nirav didn't say anything, just kept staring and standing there with his empty eyes.

"_Wo de ma_ (1)," Tarak said, kneeling down next to Nirav. "What happened?"

It was frightening how Nirav's face didn't change, even when Tarak stroked his hair like a father would a terrified child. After a few moments of unresponsiveness, Tarak went and ushered Nirav to the small washroom down the hall. Bookman leaned against the doorframe and kept an eye on them, wondering what on earth Nirav had gotten into.

They were in there for a while and Bookman found himself wondering where the other one, Chi, went to. Just as he was thinking those thoughts, Tarak came out of the washroom with Nirav in his arms. It looked like the younger boy was asleep on Tarak's shoulder.

Tarak didn't say anything as he entered their room and Bookman closed the door behind all of them. He didn't ask anything, just merely stood there and waited until Tarak stopped pacing and sat in the nearest chair.

"Chi's dead," Tarak said quietly; Nirav whimpered against his shoulder.

Bookman kept his features in check.

"Dead?" he repeated.

It seemed to ring in the room. Tarak nodded.

"All I could get out of him was that Chi was k-killed," Tarak stammered.

It was then that he knew Tarak was too kind to be a Bookman.

"He supposedly stole from a merchant…" Tarak continued slowly.

Before Bookman could ask anything more, Nirav let out a series of sudden, shrill yells that startled them. There was a loud thump from the other room, which Bookman guessed to be Lavi falling off the couch.

It took several moments to calm Nirav down from his hysteria. When he was finally quiet, Nirav's face was once again that impassive mask. The only thing that could cause someone to become as emotional as that was when they witnessed madness first hand.

"Where is his body?" Bookman asked; Nirav's eyes opened wider and Bookman feared he might start screaming again.

"Whose body?"

Lavi was standing in the doorway to the back room, clutching his head with one hand and gripping the doorframe with the other. He looked like death, that was for sure, but Bookman had no desire to withhold information from him.

"Chi was killed," Bookman said when Tarak was silent.

"Killed?" Lavi repeated in a hollow voice.

Nirav started sobbing, his hands making fists as he seized Tarak's shirt. Bookman could see some fresh wounds begin bleeding again from his knuckles. Defensive wounds. Who had he been defending himself from?

"Where is his body?" Bookman asked again; Nirav flinched away from his voice as if he had hit him.

"Shishou, please," Tarak said, placing his large hand on Nirav's head to calm him.

"Would you prefer to leave his corpse out in the open?" Bookman asked, and this time it was Tarak who flinched away from him.

"No, but…can't you see he isn't in a right state?" Tarak replied, indicating the nearly hyperventilating child in his lap.

"And until he is righted, am I supposed to neglect the fact that one of my apprentices is lying dead in a ditch?" Bookman asked, with enough sting in it that he could see Lavi shrink back out of the corner of his eye.

"No…but…" Tarak answered weakly.

"It is disrespectful to the dead and that is something that I will not take lightly," Bookman continued icily. "Now where is his body? I will not ask again."

Tarak looked down and then over at Lavi, who had slumped against the wall with his knees to his chest and his head cradled in his hands. His gaze then fell to Nirav on his lap.

"All I could get out of him was something about a bridge," Tarak answered quietly and Nirav gave a visible shudder.

Bookman nodded and turned on his heel to throw his cloak over his shoulders.

"You,"—Bookman pointed to Tarak—"watch over them."

He nodded and shifted his hold on Nirav, who was back behind those doll eyes again.

"I have a corpse to find," Bookman said.

All three of them cringed as he swept out the door.

**pqpq**

There was only one major bridge in Nawakot that was within walking distance of the bazaar. Carts of traders and merchants lined the streets to the bridge, those who could not find space in the actual marketplace. The further one got from the heart of the city and closer to the bridge, the more things one could find of a questionable nature. Opium was a big push, as well as lethal poisons, although there was certainly a bigger market for both in the capital or cities like Bombay and New Delhi in India

He questioned a few people who looked like honest folk about Chi and they all sent him to the cluster of carts practically under the bridge. The people there looked suspicious and were packing up quickly. When Bookman asked them why they were rushing they muttered that they were leaving early for the day because of the rising river behind them and the accumulating clouds above.

Although they were all shifty and some of their fingers stained dark from the poisons they dealt, Bookman could tell that none of them were responsible. After they shuffled off, Bookman walked along the river looking for clues. For a body.

Under the first support pillar, Bookman found signs of a struggle: marks in the mud, like someone was dragged. Following the trail, there was soon blood, and by the time he had walked underneath the bridge to the other side, Bookman found even more. The trail ended in the bushes, where he found a rolled up straw mat stained crimson.

Bookman had found what he was looking for.

And it wasn't anything to be happy about.

**pqpq**

A few hours later, Bookman returned to the hotel. Tarak was sleeping in a chair propped up against the wall He woke when Bookman closed the door behind him.

"Did you…?" he asked quietly.

Bookman did not reply, walking to his bag where he pulled out a towel. Dipping it into the washbasin on the table, Bookman soaked it and then rung out the excess water before he cleaned his bloody, mud-covered hands.

"Is he…" Tarak tried again.

"Dead? Yes," Bookman answered. "Buried? Yes."

Tarak looked like he didn't know what to do with himself.

"Did he…well, that's a stupid question…" Tarak muttered, running a hand over his face.

"You were going to ask if he suffered," Bookman said.

"Yes," Tarak managed to get out. "I mean…I know that he was killed, but there are quick ways to…"

"Be murdered?" offered Bookman.

"You don't have to say it like that!" Tarak ground out with anger flashing across his face like the lightning outside.

"Then don't ask pointless questions," Bookman answered; Tarak shut his mouth with an audible snap.

He didn't want to think about that little body that he had just buried in an unmarked grave. Bookman also didn't want to remember what had been _done_ to that body. It was an accurate observation that Chi's final moments had been in anguished suffering. And although Bookman didn't believe in God or Heaven, a small part of him held on to that hope that Chi, although a brat, found peace somewhere.

**pqpq**

Bookman made a strong brew of tea on the iron stove in the corner of the room. He used the roots that Tarak had brought back plus the ingredients that he had picked up in the market on his way back to the hotel. It was a dark brown, watery substance that smelled like dirt and something that could have been classified as bovine. Although it smelled disgusting and tasted that way, it was one of the few effective cures for migraines.

After taking some himself, Bookman poured a cup for Lavi and brought it into the back room. As he walked by Tarak, the older boy made a point of not looking at him, throwing himself back into the log he had elected to write to pass the time.

Nirav was lying on his sleeping mat, his eyes closed, breath coming evenly. It seemed that his earlier actions had finally taken their toll on him as apparent from his exhausted state. Bookman stepped around him and over to the couch where Lavi was merely a small lump underneath the blanket. There was a pillow over his head, probably to block out sound and light which would aggravate his headache.

Bookman found Lavi's hand somehow beneath the tangle of bedding and closed his tiny fingers around the mug of tea.

"Drink that," Bookman said. "It will rid you of your headache."

It was only when he was halfway out the door did he hear Lavi's weak reply of thanks.

**pqpq**

It had rained during the night and was still drizzling that morning. The winds from the west were coming in strong and a black front of clouds drifted ominously in the distance. Even those who made their living by selling or trading in Nawakot's bazaar had packed up to seek shelter.

Bookman thought that perhaps they would be stuck in the city until there was a break in the monsoon season. But before dawn a small boy from the dockyard came and informed him that their planned excursion down the river had not been postponed.

"We're going out in this?" Tarak asked, after the boy had gone.

"We cannot stay here," Bookman said. "It is paramount that we keep moving. If we stay in this valley for much longer, we will be trapped here for the next few months."

Tarak muttered to himself for a bit, going in to wake the children. When they came out into the front room, Nirav was wearing a far-away expression on his pale face. Lavi, meanwhile, looked like he had just been dragged a few miles over rugged terrain behind a galloping cart horse.

Bookman was the only one who ate that morning as Nirav was too traumatized to eat and Lavi just looked plain sick. Tarak wasn't eating only because he was miffed at Bookman, which was a stupid reason.

"Get your things packed, then. We need to be at the dockyard soon," Bookman said to their silence.

"Dockyard?" Lavi asked, as if he hadn't heard properly.

"Yes, the dockyard. How else do you think we were going to get on a boat?" Bookman answered.

"On a boat?" Lavi repeated, his voice a little higher than normal.

Bookman could see that Lavi was gripping the side of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the same shade that his face had gone.

"Of course," Bookman replied.

"Oh," he said, although his grip did not lessen on the table.

"We are taking a boat to Baglung. We should be there by the end of the week," Bookman informed all of them.

It didn't seem to matter, though, because Tarak was still defiantly not listening to him and Nirav was in his own world and Lavi looked like he was just trying not to throw up.

"It's the fastest route on our way to Indonesia," Bookman continued, even if they weren't listening.

"We won't make it," Nirav said in a dreamy sort of voice that could only be classified as eerie.

Lavi looked like he was going to have a fit.

"The river will either swallow us or the clouds will fall down. Either way, we're going to drown," said Nirav, not reacting to Tarak's attempts to quiet him.

Lavi was definitely on the verge of losing it. Bookman had to wonder exactly what had happened to make him fear something as simple as going on a boat.

"Nothing like that is going to happen. Go and pack," Bookman said, with finality that had Tarak leading Nirav into the back room again.

It took Lavi a moment to remove his fingers from their death grip on the table before he fled after them.

**pqpq**

Before they left, Tarak came up to Bookman holding his pack in front of him.

"What should I do with this?" he asked quietly, keeping his eyes downcast.

It was then that Bookman realized it wasn't his at all, but Chi's pack.

"I mean…I just can't…_leave_ it…" Tarak said.

"That's just what you are going to do," Bookman replied.

"_What_?" said Tarak, his gaze turning black.

Bookman could see dark circles under his eyes, which let him know that Tarak had slept probably as much as he did.

"The less we carry the better. It will only be a burden to us," Bookman said.

"But…but…!" Tarak tried to come up with something to say, but found nothing.

"It is unfortunate, but we cannot bring it along," he continued, turning his back on the tall apprentice before adding: "Take what you need from it and leave it behind."

Before Tarak could get angry and stomp away, Bookman opened the side pocket on the bag and pulled out Chi's dagger that he had received from his House. He attached it to his belt and looked at Tarak for any opposition.

Tarak said nothing and left hastily.

And it might have been Bookman's imagination, but Chi's dagger felt abnormally heavy at his hip.

**pqpq**

The rain was coming down steadily by the time they reached the yard. Many merchants were trying to get their last haul for the season into their vessels before departing, so the docks were busy with activity. Tarak was tugging Nirav, doll-like and unreachable again, along behind him. Lavi lagged at the back of their caravan, still looking shifty about the rough brown water that slopped against the low dock.

Bookman had booked them passage on a trading vessel named the Aishwarya. It was sturdy looking and clean, which were two things that the other boats in the yard didn't have going for them. Although it wasn't a large commercial ship like one would find in the finer European ports, it was of decent size and construction.

The crew of the Aishwarya was welcome to passengers, so long as fees were paid and no one interfered with their work. Only the owner of the ship (who Bookman considered the captain) and his two sons spoke a dialect that was easy to understand. They were the ones that showed them around the vessel and to their small cabin complete with sleeping hammocks.

Sometime later they pushed off from the dock and the sky was growling fiercely with the storm they were trying to outrun. It was still raining, but not as bad as it was going to if the monsoon caught up with them.

The river was high and brown and rough. Tarak was looking nauseous as he leaned on the railing overlooking the churning water. The other two weren't there, but Tarak choked out something that sounded like "cabin" before hurling over the side. Some of the crew laughed at him.

Down below, Bookman found Lavi up on one of the high hammocks reading a book in the dim light that filtered in from the small, gritty window. Nirav was sitting opposite him in the other hanging bed, watching him.

"Tarak went to go sick up somewhere," Lavi told him, not even glancing up from his book.

"Indeed he did," Bookman replied, folding his arms in front of him.

For some reason, Lavi was rather calm for someone who had nearly fallen into a fit earlier about going on the boat. He was still sitting stiff and tense, but not looking so ill, at least. Bookman wondered about this sudden change in behavior. Suddenly, it dawned on him and Bookman realized that it wasn't the actual boat that Lavi feared.

"The water is what makes you uneasy," Bookman stated, not asking.

Lavi had been turning the page in his book when Bookman spoke, ripped the page slightly at his words.

"Somewhat," was his stiff response.

"I take it you are fine if you don't see it, am I correct?" Bookman asked; Lavi kept his nose in his book, although most likely not reading.

"Yes," he said, after a moment or two.

"But even if you can't see it…it's still there…waiting," Nirav said, in an eerie sort of voice.

"_Bi zui_ (2), Nirav," Lavi said quietly, but coldly.

"Don't despair, Lavi. You won't drown alone," Nirav continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "We're all going to be swallowed up together. The River calls our names."

"I don't have a name," Bookman said, before he could stop himself.

"Mine's an alias," Lavi answered. "I think your river deity has got it all wrong."

"Can't you hear her howling?" Nirav asked, looking perplexed.

"I think I can hear Tarak vomiting," Lavi said, glancing up at the ceiling.

"But the River says—" Nirav protested, sounding somewhat lucid before Lavi interrupted him.

"The river is a river. It doesn't talk, okay?" Lavi said.

"But…" Nirav murmured after a moment. "But it says it took your mother and now it wants you."

Bookman saw Lavi's knuckles turn white as he gripped his book.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Lavi ground out in a harsh whisper.

"The River told me, and the River isn't wrong," Nirav said.

"There must be something wrong with your ears," Lavi replied, burying his face in his book again.

"But, the River said—"

"The river is a river. It doesn't talk."

And Bookman slipped out as they lapsed into uneasy silence.

**pqpq**

Bonus scene:

Out in the hallway, Bookman bumped into Tarak who was slightly gray and damp with sweat.

"Feeling better?" Bookman inquired; Tarak made a pained face.

"Lettuce came out of my nose," he answered weakly.

"When, pray tell, have you eaten lettuce in the past two weeks?" Bookman asked.

"That's what I was wondering," Tarak said, before stumbling off toward the cabin.

**pqpq**

Yay! Another chapter done! I'm trying for a plot…sort of. More will be revealed in the next few chapters like: what actually happened to Chi, why Lavi has a fear of water, and what's wrong with Nirav's mind (and will his prophecies come true?).

1)wo de ma – "mother of god!"

2) bi zui – "shut up!"

"Aishwarya" – the name of the boat means "prosperous"

**Next Time**:

And the numbers keep dropping! Who will be the weakest link...er, I mean, leaving kicked out of the group? Heck, even I don't really know yet…

Hoping to get another chapter out before the end of the year! If not, Happy**Christmahanakwanzakah** to everyone. **Festivus** if you're into it or **Happy Non Denominational Winter Holiday **for the rest of you.

A little note: I'm going to **Ohayocon** in Columbus, Ohio, January 4-6. Anyone going to be there? Drop me a review or a PM and maybe we can meet up and have lunch or something fun like that!

**Dhampir72**


	15. Two Left

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. The holidays plus going to an anime convention took a lot out of me. Now exam week is upon me, so instead of studying, I am writing a new chapter! This one is going out to **Crimson Vixen** whom I met at Ohayocon 2008. I was so strung out BAWLS and no rest (not to mention that awesome cosplay in my Lavi outfit while wearing high heeled boots, ouch!) that I don't really remember what I said at all. Oh, well. I'm sure that anyone who meets me is under the impression that I'm on crack, so…anyway, thanks for hugging me and I absolutely adored your outfit (and the pictures that I got of you and Hikaru) :DDDDD

Now, let's set sail on the angst ship!

**pqpq**

It was in the middle of the night, the boat tossing and rocking, that Bookman awoke to the sound of the floorboards creaking in the small cabin. By the faded yellow light of the nearly extinguished lantern, Bookman saw the brief swish of a cloak fluttering into the hallway through the open door.

Tarak was in his hammock, moaning softly in his sleep, and Lavi was above him, wrapped up so tightly in his blanket that only a sliver of red hair was visible. Those two were sleeping, unlike Nirav, whose bed was empty.

Bookman got up and slipped his own cloak on, hating children all the while, as they were the cause of his disrupted slumber.

The ship was silent and dark, the air oppressively cold from the wrathful sky. The darkness was surreal and all encompassing and it was difficult to tell where the black trees ended and the oily, thrashing water began. A lantern hung from a hook near the hallway to the cabins and Bookman lit it, throwing the main level of the vessel into harsh relief.

Nirav was there, leaning over the railing to look at the violently frothing river beneath them. Balancing precariously on the edge, Bookman thought he might fall in if the boat pitched suddenly.

"It's okay. The waves eat cowards like we breathe air," Nirav said quietly before Bookman could say or do anything.

"You believe yourself to be a coward then," Bookman didn't ask, but stated.

"Of course," Nirav replied, sounding almost lucid.

He turned around, leaning against the railing, the furthest point away from Bookman. All clear thought had left him, Bookman could tell, by the way his eyes were clouded over as if no one were behind them.

"I didn't stop it…" Nirav said, his voice tortured. "And I _see_ it when I close my eyes all the time and I can _hear_ it and I just can't_stand_ it anymore!"

Sensory details from the trauma had overwhelmed Nirav and driven him mad. It was a shame that such a promising young mind had been so damaged.

"Then don't think about it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bookman saw Lavi standing in the dark hallway, the lantern's illumination just barely silhouetting him although his red hair shone brightly in the lamplight.

"You don't know what it's like! You didn't have to watch!" Nirav cried, sinking down to the ground.

Tears streamed down his face, and Bookman could see that Nirav was angry and afraid at the same time. He began rocking, his wet eyes wide, with his hands gripping at his hair threatening to rip it out by the golden roots.

"No, no, no! Stop it! Stop hurting him!" he cried and rocked. "I said to stop but they didn't and they kept hurting him what's burning make it stop! Stop thrusting into him like that you're hurting him and the blood keeps coming. Holding him down like so he can't get away! Let him go he's crying and sorry so let him go! Make the bleeding stop get out of him! Why are you doing it just stop it!"

Nirav had watched; rape, violence, torture. It was true that Chi suffered in vain in his death, Bookman was able to tell just by looking at the mutilated corpse that had been so uncaringly thrown into that ditch. It wasn't pleasant, but Bookman let no emotion cross his face or his heart.

"Come here," he said sternly, motioning Nirav over toward him.

He feared that Nirav might fall into the river if he continued to remain so close to the rickety railing. And although Bookman didn't like children, that didn't mean he would allow one to die in front of him. But Nirav shook his head and Bookman could tell that all rational thought was at the bottom of a very deep, very dark well.

"No, no, no. Why should I get saved? No, because he didn't and I'm still here and he's still lying there bleeding and burned! It's all my fault and why didn't I save him? Why couldn't I save him why couldn't I do anything to stop them?" Nirav muttered, going too fast; his speech was jumbled terribly because his mind was too far gone

Bookman could see Lavi still standing in the safety of the hallway watching, not coming any closer. He was sure it was because Lavi didn't either want to see Nirav or the crashing waves. Maybe both.

"You didn't have to watch. You didn't watch him get hurt and couldn't do anything about it," Nirav continued, his voice trembling as he leaned a little more against the railing.

Lavi appeared like a flash out of the darkness.

"Stop it, Nirav. Just shut up!" Lavi said, looking disgusted as he easily closed the distance between them.

He grabbed the other boy's cloak and dragged him away from the railing overlooking the splashing water. Then Lavi pushed him down on the ground and hit Nirav harshly in the face with an open hand. Bookman almost stopped him, but figured someone needed to do it.

"You didn't have to watch!" Nirav kept crying, his lip bleeding. "You didn't see it!"

"Get over yourself!" Lavi said, slapping him again.

"You didn't WATCH!" he shouted, unable to flail about with Lavi effectively pinning him to the ground.

"I didn't have to," Lavi said, gripping his collar. "People are cruel and their actions are too. What happened to Chi wasn't right, but you can't undo what happened."

Nirav was trying to breathe through big, chest-heaving sobs.

"Everything that you saw happen, put it away and don't think about it," Lavi instructed. "After a while it gets kind of cold and you don't feel it anymore."

Bookman couldn't see Lavi's expression, the space still too dark and that black patch obscuring any glimpse of his gaze. It was amazing that Nirav's crying and fighting ceased almost immediately. His face was visible, pale and tear-stained, and his eyes were back to that empty dullness again.

"You promise?" Nirav asked, his voice a pleading whisper.

He was still down in the well, but not as troubled as before and probably as lucid as he was going to be for a while to come. Lavi didn't answer him and it was quiet for a moment, the only sounds coming from the creaking of the boat as it tossed down the river.

"Something bad happened to you, didn't it?" asked Nirav.

Lavi's face was cast in shadow and again he did not answer.

"Someone hurt you, didn't they?" Nirav continued

"You don't know what you're talking about," Lavi said quietly, but with an almost venomous edge.

The words were the same as they were earlier in the cabin when Nirav had spoken of the river and Lavi's mother. But this time, they were coated in something darker and more poisonous. It was horrible to say, but it piqued Bookman's curiosity.

"They hurt you like they did Chi, didn't they?" he asked and Lavi hit him again.

"You don't know what you're talking about, so just shut up," Lavi said, the physical blows to the object of his annoyance making him seem calmer.

"Is that what happened to your eye?" asked Nirav, not worrying over his bleeding lip or raw cheeks.

"Are you trying to say that there's something wrong with my face?" Lavi growled with true anger coloring his voice, pulling Nirav's collar tight enough to choke him.

"Your mother wouldn't have cared about what you looked like," Nirav answered.

It might have been the words that came from a person with such vacant eyes or the water that was rising and churning that made Lavi drop Nirav hard on the ground before moving away.

"You're not psychic after all," said Lavi coldly.

Now that he was faced away from Nirav, Bookman could see his face. He felt a sick sort of triumphant pleasure to find Lavi's face as emotionless and detached as his voice sounded. It was a skill that one needed to become a Bookman.

"So if you have nothing to say, stop rambling. It's unbecoming. And next time, don't be so loud and wake me up," Lavi finished, before disappearing back into the darkness.

**pqpq**

The storm got worse over the next few days. So bad, in fact, that the crew of the Aishwarya had to throw down anchor lest be sunk in the rough water. They docked at whatever was left of a yard offset from a small village, the captain promising that they would leave in a few days time, once the storm calmed down. If it calmed down, of course.

Bookman wasn't sure which of his apprentices was faster getting to land: the seasick Tarak or Lavi. But both of them were as far as they could get from the boat before it had even roped in, Nirav tagging along behind them like a wandering spirit.

Finding shelter was imminent, seeing as how the rain pouring down was unrelenting and cold. However, the village was drowning and everyone had left for higher ground, abandoning their collapsing homes in the rising water. The captain offered to let them stay on the ship to wait out the storm, but Bookman knew he'd have to bind and gag both Tarak and Lavi to get them anywhere near the vessel again.

Declining their offer, Bookman was just about to start in a southern direction when a robed man carrying a staff appeared. He was dressed in simple cottons and wore a straw hat on his head, much like the Chinese did.

"Are you in need of shelter?" he inquired, looking at their soaked states.

"Yes, how did you know?" Tarak asked, like the idiot he was.

Not only were they wet, but the water was rising rapidly. It wasn't a problem for someone like Tarak, whose height gave him the advantage in this field. But for the shorter members of the party, it was steadily becoming more than a discomfort. Bookman could see that Lavi was up past his knees in muddy water and looking like he was doing all he could not to panic.

"An educated guess, I assure you," he answered, cracking a small smile. "I came to bless the harbor in these troubled times, you see. If you follow me, our shrine may offer you lodgings until the storm passes."

"We would greatly appreciate your hospitality," Bookman said before Tarak could be even more of a dunce.

"It is no problem," he replied with a slight bow that Bookman returned. "I am Siddhartha (1)."

"I am Manish (2)," Bookman replied easily. "This is Prafulla (3), Henmanga (4), and Mrigesh (5)."

He pointed to each of his apprentices by height, Tarak being first and Lavi being last, giving them each a name that first came to mind. Siddhartha gave a courteous bow to each that they returned once receiving their new alias.

"Come," Siddhartha said, turning to head northwest. "Our shrine is this way."

They followed him through the rising water around their ankles and eventually the land got higher so they didn't have to wade clumsily along behind Siddhartha. Because of the rain, the terrain had turned to slick mud, causing some slippery spots that it seemed only Tarak could find. It was funny the first time he fell, but after the fifteenth, it became rather pathetic.

"Don't worry. It isn't far now," said the monk, looking back at Tarak's muddied form that trailed like an angry thundercloud behind them.

The rain had relented slightly and the surrounding forest offered them some protection from the elements. They had been making good time until Nirav strayed from the path and forced them all to stop. Coming closer to him, Bookman could see what he was staring at: a small, mud-spattered rabbit that was trapped under a thick fallen branch. Nirav was looking at it with a strange emotion on his face.

"Is it…dead?" he asked, his voice ringing strangely around that last word.

Siddhartha stood patiently a little further ahead of them waiting as Tarak went over to look at the animal closely.

"Not yet, but almost," Tarak replied when the creature made a small movement.

"Let it be," Bookman said, preparing to leave.

"But…shouldn't we have mercy on it and kill it?" Tarak asked; Nirav went whiter than a sheet.

"It is important that you learn to let things be," Bookman replied. "As a Bookman, there are many times you will have to look at the dying and do nothing about it."

"Why not?" Tarak asked heatedly.

"Because we are impartial observers and nothing else," answered Bookman. "We do nothing; neither to hinder nor to help. It is the Bookman way."

"But it's only a rabbit!" Tarak retorted, indicating the mutilated animal. "Starving or drowning, it's going to die either way! If we have to power and the mercy to kill it to end its suffering, shouldn't we?"

"It does not matter if it is merely a rabbit. If you show mercy to it, where will the line be drawn? It will be a rabbit this time and then something bigger the next, until you will be wanting to do the same to human beings as well," Bookman said sternly. "It is not our place as observers. You will let it be and that is final."

"I can't just let it suffer!" Tarak said indignantly, shaking as he reached for a rock next to him.

Before Bookman could say anything more, Nirav threw himself at Tarak and the rock fell from the older boy's hand.

"You aren't God you can't kill it just like they did to him! It can't fight back and he couldn't fight back it isn't right that you can just kill it! I won't let you do that this time!" Nirav cried, tears running down his face as he fought with Tarak.

There was some struggling for a few minutes, in which Tarak didn't want to hurt Nirav, but the light-haired boy was in such a state that he had no regard for what damage his flailing limbs could do. When he tired, Tarak picked up Nirav's limp form and left the dying rabbit where it lay. Siddhartha came over to them, probably after witnessing the fight.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, looking at the two boys who were now even muddier than before.

"Fine," Tarak replied harshly, not looking at Bookman.

"Very well then," Siddhartha said, glancing at all of them strangely. "It's just up the ridge this way…"

Tarak started out close to Siddhartha, leaving Bookman to follow along behind them. They hadn't gotten very far when Bookman looked back to see where Lavi had gone off to. He was standing where the creature lay dying, staring at the spot intently. Bookman was too far-off to be able to tell exactly what expression he was wearing.

"Lag behind and you'll be left behind," Bookman said, grabbing his attention.

A little while later, the forest cleared and a rather nice looking temple greeted them. The rain hit them harder as Siddhartha led them across the courtyard to the safety beneath an overhanging roof.

"I will consult Sambuddha (6) and Sarat (7) of your accommodations. Until then, please feel free to warm and dry yourselves in here," Siddhartha said, sliding open the nearest door before bowing himself away.

It was a small, bare room, with straw mats for flooring and a fire pit in the center. They all removed their shoes before entering, dumping out water and muck that had accumulated in them over the side of the narrow walkway. Upon entering the room, it was even colder inside than out.

"Followers of Brahma sure know how to live," Tarak said, attempting some dry humor at the state of things.

"They're Buddhist," said Lavi from the corner he had curled up in.

"Buddhist, Hindu; it's all the same," Tarak replied, shifting his hold on Nirav.

"Not really," Lavi said, but in a voice that sounded like he didn't care either way.

While they were talking about irrelevant things, Bookman gathered some wood that had been resting in a neat pile by the door and put it inside the pit to start a fire. He shrugged out of his cloak while he did this, silently applauding West and their intelligence when it came to making cloth that was nearly waterproof; Bookman's clothes were barely damp. Tarak meanwhile paced the small room, finding a certain spot (that looked like all the others, the idiot) to put Nirav down. The younger boy's gaze was far away so Bookman knew he was down the well again, only not as deep as before outside. Tarak peeled the both of them out of their muddy cloaks, moving Nirav closer to the growing fire for warmth.

"You know La—_Mrigesh_," Tarak addressed Lavi, almost slipping up on the name. "You should take off your cloak, unless you _want_ to get pneumonia."

"I'll get right on that, _Prafulla_," Lavi answered in the same tone, looking like he wanted to snort or scoff at Tarak's fitting alias.

But he didn't make to take off his cloak and it had both Bookman and Tarak staring at him curiously.

"What?" he asked, turning slightly pink.

"Whaddaya have there?" Tarak asked, leaving the warmth of the fire to go over to where Lavi sat.

Tarak's long frame blocked Lavi from view so Bookman could not see what they were looking at. There was a small, inhaled sound from Tarak.

"You shouldn't have…" Tarak said, low and warningly.

He then moved away and returned to his place next to Nirav in front of the fire as if he didn't want to get in trouble. Bookman turned to look at Lavi. If it was what he thought, he would be most displeased.

"Bring it here," Bookman said, in a voice that left no room for argument.

Lavi complied, coming to kneel next to Bookman. Now the older man could see that Lavi was cradling something close to his chest, wrapped up in his scarf. Moving the folds of the fabric, a pair of narrow ears appeared and small, half-lidded black eyes peered up at him.

"My instructions were to leave it," Bookman said, disapproval and disappointment coloring his tone. "Did you misunderstand me?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Bookman could see Tarak making a nervous face at the both of them and then down at Nirav, who appeared to be listening instead of staring vacantly off into space.

"No, shishou," Lavi answered, quite clearly.

"Then what is your reason?" Bookman asked, looking at the small creature that lay barely moving in Lavi's arms.

"Do I have to have one?" Lavi asked.

It wasn't challenging, merely curious.

"Of course," Bookman replied. "A Bookman must always have a purpose for his actions. Everything you do must be able to be explained, and it is only explainable when the action has been done as the result of rational thought."

"Rational thought," Lavi repeated, although for no particular reason.

"Not emotional thought," Bookman said, and Tarak made a dejected looking face from the other side of the fire. "So what is your reason?"

"Emotional thought," Lavi answered simply, wrapping the rabbit up a little tighter in his scarf. "And I_ can_ explain why I did it, but it won't be a reason you'll like."

"It's no matter then," Bookman said, not caring to know. "You will go and return the creature where you found it."

Tarak made an indignant noise and Nirav looked close to tears, but neither of them said anything.

"No," said Lavi, his words ringing clear defiance in the cold room.

"No?" Bookman repeated. "And why not?"

"Because," Lavi began, shifting his hold on the animal somewhat, "it would be going against the rules of being a Bookman."

"How do you figure this?" Bookman asked; he wasn't angry, not yet anyway.

"You said that Bookmen neither help nor hinder," Lavi said, meeting Bookman's eyes. "By leaving it to nature, we would have held fast to that principle. But I made a choice to help it, based on emotional thought, which is apparently unexplainable. Now, you're telling me to go and give it back to nature. That would be killing it, which is something we can't do, isn't that right?"

Bookman was quite sure Tarak's jaw might slip off his face if he kept up his current expression. He had probably never seen someone backtalk in such a calm and profound way.

"You are correct," Bookman said truthfully. "However, you transgressed two rules in order to sidestep the first, which is not something to make a habit of."

Lavi nodded, listening to his words.

"We will forget this deed ever existed so long as you do not follow this same path in the future, especially the result of emotional thought. Do you understand?" Bookman asked, turning away to continue stroking the dwindling fire; there was something about the way Lavi's one-eyed stare that made him uneasy—like that single green eye was searching for something just below the surface.

"Yes," Lavi replied.

It was quiet for a moment, and even when Tarak gathered his jaw from the floor, he said nothing. He did signal Lavi over to him and removed his wet cloak for him before leaning over to look at the tiny rabbit.

"It needs food and water and to be kept warm," Tarak said quietly, as if he didn't want Bookman to hear and sprout fangs big enough to impale him from across the room.

Nirav scooted closer too, reaching his hand into the bundle to gently stroke the rabbit's protruding ears.

"They're like silk," said Nirav dreamily.

"Other than that, it doesn't appear to be hurt," Tarak continued, his hand inside the scarf most likely feeling the skeletal frame of the animal for breaks.

"What was your reason?" Nirav asked, still petting the rabbit.

"Well, to feel if it had any broken bones, of course," Tarak replied.

"What was your reason?" Nirav asked again, this time looking at Lavi as he spoke.

Unlike the other two, Lavi still had a conscious awareness that Bookman was there and listening. It's not like it was hard to eavesdrop in a single room like the one they were in.

"Whaddaya mean?" Lavi asked, sounding as if he was stalling for time.

"Why you _saved_ it," Nirav clarified; Lavi looked uneasy.

They were all quiet for a moment, even Bookman who had turned to retrieve more wood from the stand behind him.

"Because it reminded me of me," Lavi finally answered.

"Of you?" Nirav asked, and Lavi nodded. "How?"

"Before I came to the Clan, I didn't have anywhere to go," Lavi answered quietly. "If Dakshina-san hadn't have come and helped me like she did, I'd probably be dead."

There was some thoughtful silence. Tarak used that time to put one of his hands on top of Lavi's head, giving him what was probably supposed to be an affectionate pat, though it looked more like rough manhandling.

"Oh! Come here!" Tarak said, pulling Lavi close in a hug. "You're like our little rabbit now!"

It was a horrible display of affection, especially when Nirav leaned over and hugged the both of them so they were one group of embracing and (what Bookman believed to be) disgraceful apprentices.

"Please get off of me," said Lavi, and then added: "You guys might kill it."

**pqpq**

Siddhartha had returned sometime later to inform them that they were permitted to stay at the temple for as long as the tempest raged on outside. He showed them to another room that was just as small, but not quite as cold. Tarak grumbled about the accommodations until Bookman told him he could very well go and sleep outside if he didn't like it. That shut him up quickly.

Tarak moved, defeated, to a corner of the room as Siddhartha started a fire for them. Once the flames began to healthily crackle the dried wood, casting a dull glow on the monk's shaved head, he stood and bid them farewell until later in the evening, when dinner would be served if they would like to join the rest of the monks for supper.

After he left, it was quiet. Nirav settled down next to Lavi to try and feed the rabbit some of the rations he had pulled from his pack. Bookman tried to meditate in order to ignore them.

"_If Dakshina-san hadn't come and helped me like she did, I'd probably be dead_."

Bookman pushed Lavi's voice out of his mind. Emotions, his or anyone else's, were not permitted. Not to be thought about or acted upon, but rather locked up inside of a box in which the key has been thrown away forever.

A Bookman had no need for a heart.

A Bookman wasn't_allowed_ to have a heart.

**pqpq**

Over the next few days, the storm kept them stranded at the temple with not very much to do. Tarak found the time to do a lot of whining, though, until he must have finally taken the hint that he was being annoying when the rest of them took turns throwing things at him.

During these days, Nirav slipped off and disappeared for hours on end. Tarak had gotten worried a few times and went to look for him, most of the time dragging Lavi along. But their searches always ended up as failures, and when Nirav would return from wherever it was he had gone, he wouldn't tell anyone anything.

The rabbit was an easy distraction for Bookman's apprentices. It was like something shiny to all of them, now that the animal could do more than lie still, hopping around the room to whichever one of them had something to eat.

Bookman made sure to take their enthusiasm down a notch by giving them work to do. Log-writing was tedious and Bookman stepped up the requirements, slowly bringing them closer to what real logs were like to write.

But they weren't taking it as seriously as they should have been: Nirav was always gone and Tarak was too busy sketching or folding his paper into Origami to care much. Bookman thought Lavi would at least be doing the assignment, but after watching him not move his quill to the inkwell for a good half-hour, he found that his youngest apprentice was too busy reading _Le Morte D'Arthur_ to even pretend like he was working.

Later that night, when it sounded like the storm was relenting somewhat, Bookman was resolved to have a good long talk with all of them about their nonchalant behavior. But he never got to that because when Nirav returned to the room, there was a subject more pressing than that of their laziness.

Nirav was no longer wearing the uniformed traveling clothes of an apprentice Bookman, but a darkly-dyed robe that matched what the other monks at the temple wore. That, however, wasn't the biggest shock.

"What in the _hell_ did you do to your hair?" Tarak asked, his face completely stunned.

All of Nirav's golden hair had been shaved off, in the traditional style of a person who was a monk.

"I gave it to Buddha, as I give the rest of myself to his principles as well," Nirav answered, sounding strangely lucid.

"You shaved your head, you idiot!" Tarak said, pointing as if the rest of them didn't notice it either. "Aren't you cold?!"

"That was probably the dumbest question you could have ever asked," Lavi told him.

"I take it that this means you are to remain here?" Bookman inquired over them.

Nirav nodded, making the other two fall silent.

"Siddhartha and Sambuddha have been teaching me good things, so that it doesn't hurt so much in here anymore," Nirav said, touching his chest. "Sarat has taken me under his tutelage. I will learn much here."

"You denounce your current position, then?" asked Bookman.

Nirav nodded again, with a calm and peaceful smile on his lips. He had the glow around him of someone who had just been enlightened. It was such a difference from the lost and vacant look that had occupied his expression since Chi's violent death.

"I do," he said, as if to make it official.

Tarak was making a pitiful face, like a puppy that had been kicked one too many times. Lavi saw his look and passed him the rabbit to pacify him so that he wouldn't start crying.

"And the secrets of the Clan shall never be revealed," Nirav continued. "I know how it works and it will remain undisclosed."

As if to seal his promise, Nirav went over to his pack and pulled out the brass compass. It was on a long golden chain that coiled in Bookman's hand like a snake.

"It was an honor being considered, but my place is here," said Nirav with a small bow.

"Very well, then," Bookman replied, putting the compass in a pouch on his belt very close to Chi's dagger.

After Nirav left, Tarak and Lavi sat on the opposite side of the fire from Bookman and they all sat in stony silence for a long time.

**pqpq**

The next day the sky was gray and ugly, but it wasn't raining. Siddhartha and two other monks (whom Bookman presumed to be Sambuddha and Sarat) saw them off. Nirav stood with them with the tiny rabbit in his arms.

"We appreciate your hospitality," Bookman said to them with a bow; Tarak and Lavi did the same.

"We were glad to be hospitable," the monks replied, also bowing.

"And we will take care of young Saunak (8)," said the shorter, older-looking monk.

After that, there wasn't much more to say, so they left the temple and Nirav, heading back the way they had come.

**pqpq**

(Go, go, go! Extra time!)

They had only been walking for about ten minutes in glorious silence when Tarak broke it.

"Let's play a game!" he said.

"Let's not," Bookman and Lavi answered.

And it was quiet again.

**pqpq**

Wow. That took me way longer than it should have…I've never realized what a procrastinator I was up until now. Sorry, everyone. I'll really try harder…! And forgive any mistakes you might have found, as I only proofread this like...once...

But did the angst and some vague answers satisfy your curiosity? I hope so!

1. Siddhartha – Buddha's real name (before he became Buddha, yaknowit)

2. Manish – "lord of the mind and intellect"

3. Prafulla – "pleasant and cheerful"

4. Henmanga – "golden colored" (as in his hair, before he shaved it, lol)

5. Mrigesh – "the lion" (which corresponds to "Lavi" which means "lion")

6. Sambuddha – "wise"

7. Sarat – "a sage"

8. Saunak – "a boy sage"

_Le Morte D'Arthur_ by Sir Thomas Malory – Translates to "The Death of Arthur" which is the book that has all of the adventures of King Arthur and his knights (you know, the whole posse: Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Gareth, etc). It sounds interesting, but it really isn't. If you like that sort of thing, read the newer version (not in Ye Olde English) which is called _The Once and Future King_.

Because of a few requests, I'm **not** going to be using any more **foreign phrases**. People say it's too confusing and stuff so…yeah. I'll use maybe one or two every now and then, though, because I think it gives the story character. **Sorry to everyone who was looking forward to more of the interesting swear words that I've been saving up.**

**Next time!**

Bookman is down to two apprentices! One was killed and one found faith! What is in store for Tarak? (Oh, come on, people. It's totally not a spoiler because we all know who ends up becoming Bookman's apprentice!) And then what…?

Thanks for still reading this story! I'll try and update more from now on!

**Dhampir72**


	16. Odd Couple

Author's Note: Thanks for sticking it out, people. Makes me feel really good, you know? I really appreciate all of your reviews and everything you have to say! So I did my best to update this as soon as possible, although I do believe I failed a little...I will try a lot harder to be faster with this...!

**pqpq**

Needless to say, it was a long journey after they had left Nirav at the temple. Even after the storm had cleared and the river was calm again, Bookman couldn't get either of the two of his remaining apprentices near a boat.

"I'll walk, thanks," Tarak had said.

The mental image of Tarak trying to go by foot across the rest of Nepal would have had made Bookman laugh, if he remembered how to. But it _was_ quite comical, knowing that the boy would find every hole, puddle, and pit to fall pathetically into.

Lavi hadn't said anything, but turned a rather sick shade of whitish gray and stood behind Tarak, silently saying that he would take the land over sea as well. It was a two to one decision.

Bookman really did consider drowning the both of them.

**pqpq**

During the weeks spent walking across the country to India—yes, weeks, as Tarak was going for the record for falling into anything that even resembled a groove in the ground—Bookman found out a lot of things about his two apprentices. The obvious was that they were quite intelligent, but also exceedingly stupid.

For one, neither of them knew what cooking was. They had been living off whatever they had carried from Clan headquarters, but that supply had ended some time ago and it became time to live off what they could find in nature. It was sad that Tarak had stared at a kettle for a good ten minutes before asking what it was for and how he could make it work. It was even sadder when Tarak couldn't wrap his brain around the concept of boiling water.

"How do you think we have gotten hot water in the past?" Bookman couldn't help but ask.

Tarak's reply was a very long scientific equation. The effect of his brief moment of intellect was ruined when he burned himself on the kettle hanging over the fire and grumbled something that could have been "shitfuck" or perhaps "mukluk", Bookman wasn't sure.

Lavi was a little more sensible. He at least knew what things were for, only he had not the slightest clue how to go about using it for the intended purpose. It was refreshing to find that Bookman could show him something once or twice and he would be able to perform the task flawlessly, unlike Tarak. But Bookman didn't hold it against the other boy, blaming it on perhaps a genetic defect.

However, Tarak _was_ holding everything against Lavi. If the fool would stop and look, he'd realize it was his own inability that was affecting his performance.

"You must be cheating," he insisted one night, after burning himself for the umpteenth time.

"Oh, yeah. I am," Lavi answered dryly.

"Then you admit it!" Tarak said, pointing an accusing (and burned) finger in the redhead's direction.

"Sure, why not," was Lavi's answer.

"Ha!" Tarak said triumphantly, sitting down with a smug look on his face.

"What are you so happy about…?" Lavi asked.

Tarak just gave him a superior look and attempted to do some simple exercises, which resulted in Bookman having to coat his hands in burn salve. But he seemed complacent and not as frustrated with his injuries as he normally was, probably truly believing that Lavi was indeed cheating and that he had at least tried to do it on his own so his wounds were more like battle scars than anything.

While traveling, Tarak divided his time wisely: a quarter of the time he was sleeping and the other quarter of the time, he was eating. For about forty-five percent of the rest, he was being stupid, pathetic, or clumsy. The remaining five percent was divided then equally among "being useful" and "whining".

One day, they had stopped early and Tarak displayed his rare talents of being useful by teaching Lavi the finer points of martial art hand-to-hand combat. The tall boy was actually quite good, until he started talking.

"Form is important. As is knowing where your enemy is going to attack from," Tarak explained. "Also, if you know what they look like, it helps too."

Bookman smoked nearby and watched them, wondering how it was possible for a person to slip from being useful to stupid in such a short span of time.

"I thought it was—"

"Never mind what you thought it was. You're probably wrong," Tarak cut Lavi off in a superior tone.

Lavi made an unbelieving face, but said nothing else.

"Now, before we begin: you have to call me 'Master'," Tarak said, completely serious.

"I'm not calling you master," Lavi replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Why not?" asked Tarak, looking insulted.

"Because you're an idiot," Bookman said, wanting nothing more than to throw something at him. "Be useful or stop talking."

"Okay, okay," Tarak said, putting his hands on his hips in an aggravated gesture.

He became more serious after that. Lavi knew enough from books to be able to pick up on some of the actual physical moves after a short time. Tarak kept using his height and considerable weight to his advantage.

"You're too tall," Lavi grumbled, after failing to deliver an effective blow.

Tarak just started to cackle maniacally.

"It's not about height," Bookman said, putting out his cigarette on a nearby rock.

And then he delivered a simple double snap kick to Tarak's head. Nothing that would put him out of commission for long; just a bruise for being such an idiot.

"Ow…" Tarak mumbled, lying in the fetal position on the ground with his face in the dirt.

Lavi had a shocked looked on his face, but didn't say anything as Bookman went back to retrieve his cigarette.

"He's a ninja…" Tarak mumbled and Bookman saw Lavi nod in agreement.

**pqpq**

As they traveled, Bookman began to pick up on some personal habits that one could only begin to notice after such a long time being in the presence of others.

Tarak had a list of strange quirks that extended down a long list that could reach from Kathmandu to Burma if it took a physical manifestation. They were odd things indeed, but Bookman didn't stop to analyze his actions, as they were most likely without intended purpose anyway.

Lavi, on the other hand, was a different case all together. For such a young child, he was quite the mystery, and each habit that Bookman observed was something that one would not notice unless looking closely.

The obvious mystery was his covered eye. Dakshina hadn't gone into what the outcome had been of the injury, but Bookman recalled her saying that it had been an open wound when she had found Lavi. From what Bookman could see, there was no obvious scarring above or below the patch; that meant that if Lavi had been wounded, the blow had been in, toward the eye itself and not over or across the brow and cheek. If that was true, it must have been excruciatingly painful.

Because of his limited range of vision, Lavi had specific places he would situate himself. When they were walking, he would always be furthest to the right, his good eye keeping both Bookman and Tarak in sight. Bookman wondered if it was a trust issue, or if it had something to do with his other apprentice's tendency to gesture with his hands as he spoke.

At night, Lavi would disappear before they went to sleep. When he came back to their camp, Lavi would be wearing a different eye patch than the one he wore during the day. Only after a few nights of observation could Bookman tell that it was a softer cloth, probably so that it would not be uncomfortable to sleep in, although it still appeared so with the bands that stretched across his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

"Why don't you just not wear it?" Tarak asked one night; Bookman was surprised that he even noticed. "I mean…let it get some air, right?"

Lavi gave him a stare that could have frozen rushing water.

"What? I'm just asking! It can't be that bad, right?" Tarak said defensively.

But Lavi's withering glare continued until Tarak twitched and laid down in his sleeping bag, defeated. The redhead followed suit, lying on his right side as he always did so that his good eye would be able to see if he so needed to in the middle of the night.

Lavi also displayed some oddities when it came to food. Out of everyone, his rations had lasted the longest from when they left the clan and he ate what could be considered "subsistence level" at every mealtime. He certainly knew how to make food last; it was something that Bookman knew people developed after spending a good stretch of time starving. Bookman would have been worried about this, as Lavi was undersized (Tarak had called him, on more than one occasion: "scrawny") for his age, but he managed the same amount of walking distance as the rest of them without tiring, so Bookman did not interfere.

**pqpq**

Halfway through their journey, they reached New Delhi. Being the capital, it had one of the largest marketplaces in India. Bookman remembered the problem that they had experienced back in Nawakot and was resolve to make sure that he kept both of his apprentices from wandering again.

Strangely, Bookman only had a problem with Tarak. Lavi stayed very close to Bookman's left elbow, his blind side in and good eye facing out to look at all of the things the bazaar had to offer. It was quite sad that the younger of his apprentices was the most mature; Tarak nearly spent whatever small amount of money he had on a poisonous scorpion, but a quick kick to the head fortunately changed his mind.

They stayed a few days in the city, in a nice establishment above a pottery store. It was during the next three days that Tarak spent annoying the sanity out of Bookman and Lavi. He was way too hyper for his own good so Bookman tried a tactic one day to keep Tarak busy by sending him out on an errand. It proved to be an ineffective tactic, as Tarak was so easily distracted he returned a few hours later empty-handed and completely confused as to why he went out in the first place.

The second night's weather kept them inside. It was good to see that reading or writing could keep them quiet and complacent for a few continuous hours. Except for Tarak (where did he get the energy from?) who couldn't rest if things were silent it seemed.

"Are you ticklish?" Tarak asked randomly, poking Lavi in the back of the head with his finger.

"Am I what?" asked Lavi, swatting Tarak's hand away without turning around.

"Ticklish," said Tarak.

"Ticklish?" Lavi repeated, this time turning in his chair to look at the older boy.

"Yeah. You know…ticklish?" Tarak said.

"I don't know what that means," Lavi replied disinterestedly, going back to his book.

"Oh, c'mon! You've gotta know! Ticklish. Like when someone…tickles…you…" Tarak tried again, failing to describe what he meant.

Bookman shook his head and went back to his newspaper. There were a lot of strange phenomena happening on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan…Mysterious disappearances and destruction to the surrounding towns. The strange things were the black pentacles that decorated each scene…

"…and it's like…you know!" Tarak continued, waving his arms uselessly.

"Nope," Lavi replied, still without interest.

"I'll show you then…" Tarak said; Bookman heard him stand up.

"Touch me and you will regret it," Bookman promised, not glancing up from his paper.

Tarak's footsteps retreated after that threat and it was silent for a moment.

"Oh…it doesn't work when you try to tickle yourself…" Tarak mumbled.

There was some rustling and then:

"What are you doing?" asked Lavi.

"Tickle me," said Tarak; Bookman looked up for a moment to see that he was nudging Lavi with his toe.

"Get your damn feet away from me," Lavi said.

"What? What's wrong with them?"

"I don't know where they've been; get them away from me."

"Oh, c'mon. Tickle me!"

"I'm not touching your feet."

"Do you want me to tickle you then? Tickle, tickle, tick—AH!"

Bookman looked up again at the surprised cry of pain. Tarak was lying on the ground with a leather-bound copy of Dante's _The Divine Comedy_ embedded in his face.

It definitely looked like it didn't tickle.

**pqpq**

After their break in New Delhi, Bookman drove them Northwest toward the Middle East. If that was where there was unrest, that was where there would be history.

Taking the quickest dry route to Pakistan was through the Thar Desert in India. Considering the time of year, it was unusually brutal hot during the day, the temperatures falling only during the evening. It was a good thing they didn't have to walk very much, as it would have taken them twice as long (with Tarak, maybe three times as long) to make it across the rest of the country.

The reason they made good time was because they had be able to secure two camels in a small town outside of New Delhi called Narnaul. Bookman had cured a camel dealer's daughter of a mild case of Pertussis with some crafty acupuncture techniques and a homemade cough suppressant. The father could not pay for medical treatment, so traded Bookman the camels as compensation for his care.

It was then that it was discovered that Tarak's talents were put to crap use out in the desert. Bookman never knew that someone could have such an endless supply of camel jokes…Scratch that: such an endless supply of bad camel jokes. Bookman would have kicked him off his camel if it wasn't for the fact that Tarak was sharing a seat with Lavi and the idiot might pull the child down with him.

And so commenced the next week and a half of their trip: trekking across the desert only to stop every night for rest in places like Jaipur, Nagaur, Phalodi, and the smaller cities between them as they moved further and further West.

"Why didn't we take the short way to Pakistan?" Tarak asked, during a particularly long day of riding with no seeming end in sight.

"Would you have preferred to cross several rivers once we arrived there?" Bookman replied; Tarak went a sick sort of green at the thought.

"No…" he said in a small voice.

"Then that is your answer," Bookman replied.

"So you were being considerate?" Tarak asked, his dark eyes glancing over at Bookman curiously.

"I was being realistic," Bookman answered, glaring back at him. "Unfortunately, the both of you will not travel on a boat. I made the adjustments so that we will arrive at our destination in the same amount of time as if we had gone the other way."

After all, Bookman being "considerate" was close to caring, which was something that he most certainly was not.

"How do you figure that?" Tarak inquired.

"By this route it will take us an extra four days. If we had gone the shorter way, it would have taken me that long to get you _near_ a boat," Bookman answered; the boy made a noncommittal noise.

Tarak fell silent after that and it made Bookman wonder what entity had made this miracle happen. Looking over at him, Bookman saw that Tarak was being quiet because Lavi was leaning back against the older boy's chest, fast asleep. There was an emotion on Tarak's face that could only be a strange sort of paternal protectiveness and he appeared as if he was taking great care to make sure that Lavi didn't fall out of the saddle while sleeping.

**pqpq**

The Thar Desert extended past the borders into Pakistan. It was only when they reached a city outside of Sukkur in the province of Sindh that they new they were out of India. Another day or so of traveling brought them to Sukkur, right on top of the Indus River. Tarak looked betrayed, like Bookman had given him a present and then took it away.

"But you said…" Tarak whined a little.

"It was one river or seven," Bookman said.

A wave of visible relief washed over Tarak's face and he made a motion that looked like he was going to come over and hug Bookman. Another kick to the head stopped him like a brick wall.

Before doing anything, Bookman (now Manoj) bestowed his two apprentices with aliases. Lavi received an easy one: Ravi, which was a name growing in popularity in the region. It would be a simple name for people to forget. On the other hand, Tarak was given the name Mukesh, which was given to him in honor of his personality. It seemed to greatly entertain Lavi as much as it did Bookman. Tarak, not knowing what was so funny, actually went and looked it up to figure out what he was missing.

"It translates to 'Lord of the Dumb'," Tarak said, reading out of a thick book of names; another handy tool for Bookmen to have.

Lavi put a hand over his mouth and coughed slightly, probably to hide the fact that he was grinning.

"It means 'dumb' as in 'the mute' just so you know," Tarak said, shoving Lavi a little.

So much for those paternal instincts.

"Maybe you should work on that, then," said Bookman, lighting a cigarette. "You've got one of those two down already."

Poor Tarak started blithering like a fool and hung his head to mope. Lavi must have felt badly for making fun of him because he stood on his tiptoes to pat Tarak on the head in sympathy.

**pqpq**

After lodging their camels and finding a place to stay, Tarak proposed taking a long, soaking bath somewhere. A good week or so without a one while traveling through the desert would make anyone agree with that statement.

Later that night, they returned to their hotel and slept like death until the next morning that dawned bright and early. Once awake, Bookman began to delve deeper into the secret of their clan and the rules that must be followed in the presence of others.

"We are no one, you understand. Once taking the oath of the Clan, your identity is erased from history forever," Bookman said seriously; Tarak spilled some of his breakfast in his own lap in awe. "But to everyone within history, we must be someone. That is why we take upon aliases and forge fake identities. It is the only way to not be questioned, to remain unattached, and to record what we are sent to record."

With most of his breakfast in his lap, Tarak leaned over and started to steal some of Lavi's right out of the bowl he was holding. As Bookman was talking, they engaged in a small fight with their chopsticks until a glare from their master stopped them.

"In order to be an effective Bookman, you cannot just have a name," Bookman continued, still glaring at them as if daring the two to do it again. "You need to have a personality and a story, but nothing too extravagant that will allow people to remember you years from now. It needs to be convincing and well thought out, but as vague as—if you two don't stop, I will intervene."

Tarak and Lavi broke their glaring and the grips they had on their chopsticks to look at Bookman.

"He started it," Lavi mumbled.

"I did not!" Tarak said indignantly.

Lavi jabbed Tarak in the arm with his chopsticks; Tarak did the same back to him. They went back and forth a few times until Bookman (fearing they would soon go for eyes) slammed his palm down on the table.

"You will stop it or I will finish it," Bookman said, in the same calmness an area exhibits before a torrential storm.

They dropped their eating utensils like they had caught on fire.

"Now, we are going to be here for a few days until we secure passage across the Indus," Bookman said, not missing how the two of them turned pale at the mere prospect. "In that time, I would like you to work on this task. We will have a collective story. Let us do that now."

Tarak and Lavi sort of stared at him for a second.

"What are we doing again?" Tarak asked unintelligently; Bookman rubbed his temples.

This was going to be a long day.

**pqpq**

After an hour (it shouldn't have taken _that_ long) of discussion, a story had been settled. Manoj had traveled from Nawabshah, a city in the deeper south of the Sindh, with grandchildren (Mukesh and Ravi). Their mother had recently passed, their father dead for five years, leaving the children alone. The two of them would have been enough to keep their small livestock farm going, but Manoj and his wife, Hamsa (named by lucky guess, as there just happened to be a painting of a swan in their room), insisted that the boys come and live with them. Which is where they were now: in the middle of their journey to Zhob in the northwest.

"Does it really have to be that complicated?" Tarak asked, looking lost.

"It isn't that difficult," Bookman said.

Tarak put on a sulky face for the rest of the morning as they went down to the river to find a vessel. The Indus was clear and a beautiful bluish green in the mid-morning light. Its pristine beauty actually had Tarak and Lavi leaning over the dock-yard railing to look at it closer.

While they did this, Bookman talked to a few people about crossing the river. It turned out that there was a boat that crossed the Indus every day, carrying goods and passengers from Sukkur to her twin trade city, Shikarpur. He was told that the ship had already left for the morning, but would return in the evening. They could buy their passage when it returned and set sail at dawn the following day.

"So what are we going to do all day?" asked Tarak.

"You are going to practice," Bookman replied.

"Practice?" Tarak and Lavi repeated, almost like two parrots.

"Practice," Bookman nodded.

**pqpq**

It was less than ten minutes into their task that Bookman discovered Tarak had no such thing as tact. He would stop anyone passing to tell them his story, which was strange and that made it memorable. People would be more likely to remember some crazy they met than a normal person they engaged in light, forgettable conversation with in the market.

After Bookman had tried (and failed) to explain the meaning of being tactful to Tarak, he told the oldest apprentice that his speaking rights were revoked until he learned how to make them useful. That lasted about five seconds.

"Strike!" Tarak said loudly.

They had stopped at a vendor's stall for some kinnow when Tarak said this. Bookman was about to turn around and smack him upside the head, just for speaking, but then he realized that Tarak was speaking about a woman passing by. That deserved a kick rather than a smack.

"Strike?" Lavi asked, looking down at Tarak who was practically buried a half a foot into the ground.

"Did you see her? She was beautiful…" came Tarak's weak voice; Bookman considered stomping on him just for effect.

"You'll show respect to women, do you understand?" Bookman said coldly.

"I was showing respect...to her beaut—ah!" Tarak cried out in pain as Bookman walked over his back to continue on his way.

Unfortunately it seemed that Bookman's threat did not go through and hit home quite as hard as he had intended it to. Tarak spent the rest of the late morning pointing out pretty women to Lavi, although he was careful to keep his voice low. He must have thought he was being crafty (which he wasn't) and although Bookman admitted he was older, he was most certainly not deaf.

"…now she's a catch right there…"

Bookman was about to forcefully teach Tarak some manners, but a bell rang somewhere and the people around them immediately went forth to pray. Signaling to Tarak and Lavi, Bookman knelt down on the ground; they followed suit.

"What are we doing?" Tarak whispered, bowing forward.

"An important factor of being a Bookman is learning to blend in," Bookman replied, just as quiet.

Of course, "blending" was posing to be a little bit of a problem, what with Tarak's obvious inability to act normal. Also, there was Lavi's glaringly unnatural red hair and eye patch that made him stand out almost as much as Tarak. But unlike the older of his apprentices, Lavi had no control over that.

"Is this _Salah_?" Tarak asked quietly over the murmuring of the surrounding people's prayer.

"_Salah_?" Lavi asked.

"It's one of the five pillars of Islam," Tarak said, before turning his head to look at Bookman. "Right?"

"Yes," Bookman replied quietly. "It is ritual prayer that is performed five times a day."

"And you have to face toward Mecca," Tarak said, interruptive as usual.

"Why?" asked Lavi.

"Beats me," he replied uselessly.

Once prayer was over and people resumed their daily activities again, Tarak resumed his previous aptitude for being an idiot.

"…and the best way to talk to them is to accidentally do it," Tarak was saying.

"Accidentally?" Lavi asked, his voice sounding skeptical.

"Yes. Never, ever come out and say that you like them. You have to work up to it. But the best way to work up to it is to actually talk to them, you following?"

"I guess so…"

"So you kind of have to sneak up on them, almost like you're hunting—"

"But I thought you said it was like fishing? You said that she was a 'catch'. That's fishing, right?"

"You're too damn smart for your own good. Shut up and listen."

It continued to degrade from there, especially when Tarak attempted to show Lavi how to get a woman. After "accidentally" bumping into her and knocking her groceries everywhere, Tarak attempted to flatter her, only to have her husband come up and physically hurt him before threatening to remove his genitals.

"You asked for that one," Bookman said to Tarak's pale countenance.

Only when Tarak had sat to keep himself from fainting did Bookman realize that Lavi was missing. Looking through the crowd, Bookman spotted him talking to a woman dressed in a lilac _shalwar qamiz _and matching headscarf. He was holding up what appeared to be her money pouch, which Bookman hoped he hadn't stolen.

"Don't fall for it! She'll call her husband on yooooou!" Tarak moaned from beside him.

But she did not, kneeling down next Lavi so that she was eye level with him. Her veil prevented Bookman from seeing her face and expression.

"Don't tell me he's getting lucky…?!" Tarak whined, sitting up quickly; Bookman cuffed him upside the head and he fell over again.

By the time Bookman looked back, he saw that the woman had her hand over Lavi's mouth and had pulled him close to her. He only caught Lavi's red hair disappearing in a flutter of purple silk before they were gone.

**pqpq**

(Half-bonus scene time)

"She kidnapped him?!" Tarak shouted, sitting up from where he had been thrown to the dirt. "WHY COULDN'T SHE KIDNAP _ME_?!"

Bookman drove his elbow into the crown of Tarak's head, sending him crashing down to the ground once more.

Fucking idiot was of no help anyway.

**pqpq**

Oh noes! Lavi's been kidnapped? What the hell? I write this stuff and I don't know where this came from…oh well. Suspense, suspense! What's going to happen now…?!

Stuff You Might Be Curious About:

_Manoj_ – Bookman's alias means "born of mind". He likes to flatter himself.

_Ravi_ – Lavi's alias (which has been mistaken for his name in the series a few times) is Sanskrit for "Sun". Bookman probably picked it just because it's easy to remember.

_Mukesh_ – I really laughed at Tarak's alias. "Lord of the Dumb" meaning the mute or "those who have no voice", it made me giggle to think that it had a double meaning!

_Kinnow_ – like a mandarin orange specially from Pakistan

_Shalah_ – One of the five pillars of Islam: prayer. Easy enough, huh?

_Shalwar qamiz_ – A traditional style of dress in Pakistan. Men can wear them too, but in this case, it's worn by a woman.

Dante's _The Divine Comedy_: Consists of three different "canticas"— Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso each with 33 cantos. It's an interesting work that explores the possibilities of the afterlife (most predominantly Christian, especially Catholicism, as the most vivid part of the "Comedy" is the Inferno, or "Hell", cantica) through one man's journey to "Paradise". It's very interesting, although I would have to say that The Inferno is the best part!

Yeah….I'm not quite sure about a lot of the stuff in the Middle East, so I'm really guessing. All the places are real, and the customs, but I'm kind of being vague because I don't understand it very well. Sorry, my bad, everyone. When we get into the more intense Catholicism stuff, it'll be a little more interesting…?

**Bonus Blooper Tiem Nao, kthnx.**

"What are we doing again?" Tarak asked unintelligently.

Bookman slapped him upside the head.

"You could've had a V8!"

**oOoOoOo**

Sorry, I couldn't help it. I really enjoy those commercials, after all…

**After a frightfully boring chapter, what will happen next?** Who is this mysterious woman that has kidnapped Lavi? How is Tarak going to "leave" the group? When will the next chapter come out? I don't know either, so bear with me here…

Hope you enjoyed! See you next time…?

**Dhampir72**


	17. Tarak's Choice

Author's Note: Thanks for all of your reviews! That's all! Here's your chapter! I did my best to get it out ASAP!

**pqpq**

"She kidnapped him?!" Tarak shouted, sitting up from where he had been thrown into the dirt. "WHY COULDN'T SHE KIDNAP _ME_?!"

Bookman drove his elbow into the crown of Tarak's head, sending him crashing down to the ground once more.

"I wish she would have," Bookman said, annoyed.

Fucking idiot was of no help anyway.

**pqpq**

Bookman didn't wait for Tarak to remove his face from the small crater in the ground that his big head had created, but instead immediately went in search of the lady in lilac. She had disappeared with Lavi only a few meters from them, however her bright colored _shalwar qamiz_ was nowhere in sight. Just as Bookman was about to inquire her whereabouts from the closest vendor, Tarak appeared by his side.

"I found this," he said, holding Lavi's scarf in his hand.

"Where?" Bookman asked.

Tarak led him to a small pathway between the two nearest buildings. The alley was narrow and dirty, leading to another busy market scene one street over. Before stepping out into the crowded road, something colorful caught Bookman's eye: a small scrap of ripped purple cloth.

"Well, at least we know they went this way," Tarak said, trying to sound helpful.

"The question is which way," Bookman replied as he picked up the piece of fabric off the ground.

There was left and right, and also straight ahead, not to mention there were several hotels and small restaurants also on the street. She could have been anywhere. So the questioning started. They spent an hour or so wandering the street (toward the Indus, they were told from a pottery maker near the alley who had seen both the woman and Lavi "not too long ago") and Bookman was relieved to find that Tarak was actually in his "being useful" mode, so it took half as long instead of twice as long to complete.

The market seemed to have no end in sight and their trail began to meet a dead end. It had been too long since the incident, so no one could really remember seeing a specific person from earlier that afternoon. Bookman would never admit it, but he was becoming worried.

"Let's just keep asking. It won't hurt," Tarak said, his anxiousness clear on his face.

Just as he was standing on his tiptoes to peek over the heads of the crowd, Bookman saw a silversmith working diligently nearby. He was bending metal jewelry over a flame before hammering decorative designs into the surface. A few people were watching him work, but none of them were the people that Bookman was looking for so he turned to continue walking.

But a tug at his sleeve stopped him and Bookman looked down to see a little boy standing there. Before Bookman could inquire as to what the child wanted, he pointed toward the silversmith's booth where the artist was waving him over.

"Hey, that guy is waving at us," Tarak said, waving back. "Hello!"

Bookman didn't waste his breath to respond to Tarak's idiocy, instead following the young boy over to where the man had stopped working in order to smoke from his pipe.

"You're th' ones that they was looking for then, eh?" he asked, his Urdu rather poor.

"They who?" Tarak asked, kneeling down to be eye level with the artist.

"Th' redheaded kid an' his lady friend," replied the silversmith, puffing his pipe so that he was practically concealed in a smoky fog. "Said a short fellow that looks like a panda an' a tall kid who looks lost an' stupid would be lookin' for them. Not a lot o' others look like that, yknow."

"'Panda'…" Bookman repeated, feeling annoyed.

"'Lost and stupid'?" Tarak said, making a fist.

Well, at least he had gotten something right.

"He can go and be kidnapped for all I care. Let's call it a day," Tarak said, whistling as he began to walk away.

"Told me ta give yous this," he continued, as if they hadn't spoken.

He gave a small scrap of cloth to Bookman that he had pulled from his pocket. It was purple silk…

"What was in this for you?" Tarak asked, coming back to glare at the artist while crossing his arms. "I doubt that you'd just do this out of the kindness of your heart. Did she pay you? Or are you working together?!"

Bookman smacked him to get him to shut up.

"I can't never say no to a pretty lady," the artist replied, shrugging bashfully before looking frightened. "Don't tell my wife. She kill me."

As Bookman was opening the knotted silk, Tarak leaned over to watch.

"You don't think it's an ear, do you? Or a finger?" Tarak asked; Bookman wondered where he got these ideas.

But there wasn't an ear or a finger (much to Bookman's relief, which he would never admit, by the way) inside the fabric. However, there were a few red locks lying in thick strands against the smooth lilac.

"It's a threat, isn't it? We'll follow a trail of these until Lavi's bald. And then she'll start going for ears and fingers…" Tarak whispered, almost sounding excited.

"Are you sick in the head?" Bookman couldn't help but ask.

"Now that you mention it, I've kind of had this runny nose for a wh—"

Nope. He was still stupid, that was all.

"You said that a woman gave this to you," Bookman said to the artist. "The boy that was with her, did he say anything when she did this?"

"Sure, he did all the talking," he replied, blowing out a huge puff of smoke. "Dinnit seem like she spoke at all."

"Do you remember exactly what he said?" Bookman asked, hoping Lavi was smart enough to leave a clue.

"Hmm. Well, what I told yous," he said thoughtfully. "Oh, an' he says somethin' about a place they was going to."

"What place?" pressed Bookman.

"Hotel," said the artist, grinning. "Soundin' like the kid is get lucky!" 

"WHY ISN'T IT ME?!" Tarak shouted, looking like he wanted to pull his hair out.

Bookman didn't even bother hurting him. At the rate of Tarak's stupidity, Bookman calculated that he would be spending the better part of seventy-three point two-five-six percent of his time hitting or kicking him.

Bookman would rather employ his time doing something a lot more useful than beating a dead horse.

**pqpq**

Back at the hotel, Tarak suddenly developed the idea that they had to sneak up on their room by way of the shadows.

"But that's how ninja do it," Tarak insisted, trying to whisper but failing to do so effectively.

Walking up the stairs to their room with Tarak behind him (darting back and forth from one dark place to the next like the idiot he was) Bookman had to wonder just why on earth he kept the older boy around anyway.

"Walk normally," Bookman said, unable to handle the 'whoosh'ing sound effects that Tarak kept making as he played ninja.

At the door, they could hear voices talking quietly on the other side. So quiet, in fact, that the words were indecipherable and merely mumbles that allowed Bookman to know that there were two people talking inside. Before Bookman could open the door, Tarak kicked it in.

"Okay, lady! You're going to let hi—" Tarak began, but his voice trailed off.

Bookman stepped in behind him and saw that Lavi was not tied up and gagged like a prisoner, but having tea at the low table across from the woman in lilac silk.

"Brother, you broke the door down," Lavi said.

"Bro—yes I broke the door down," Tarak replied, catching on with a horribly obvious wink. "I thought you'd been kidnapped! My favorite little brother!"

"I'm your only brother," Lavi said dryly.

"We thought you had been kidnapped!" said Tarak, looking disappointed.

"No, not really," replied Lavi calmly.

"Then what was with the trail you left in the market? It was like some sort of creepy ransom note, without the writing!" Tarak insisted.

"I figured that if you guys found it, you'd come back here. No need for me to wander around that huge market looking for you because we'd never find each other again. So I left messages, that's all."

"Really creepy messages! We thought they were going to start going for your fingers and ears when you were bald!"

"What are you talking about…?"

"And who are you?" Bookman asked, ignoring them.

"Forgive me," said the woman in English.

She pulled back her veil and headscarf as she said this, allowing a cascade of wavy blonde hair to fall down her back. Looking up at them from her spot on the floor, Bookman could see her brown eyes and defined cheekbones. If the hair hadn't given it away, that would have. She was definitely European, which accounted for her English, although Bookman could detect something of an accent in her voice, leading him to believe that English wasn't even her first language, although she spoke it well.

"Your grandson bumped into me in the market and spoke to me in a language I could understand. I've been so lost here, unable to speak the native dialect, that when I found someone who spoke English, I got a little carried away," she explained, sounding embarrassed.

Speaking of embarrassing, Tarak's jaw had practically unhinged at the sight of her. He had probably never seen a European woman before, but that was still no reason for him to look and act like such a dunce.

"What is your name, young lady?" Bookman tried again, this time in English instead of Urdu.

"I am Kataryna Svichkar of Kiev," she replied, and Bookman then realized that the accent he was hearing was distinctly Ukrainian.

"What brings you to Pakistan? It is rather far from home," Bookman said, taking a seat at the table.

Before she could reply, Tarak went to sit as well, but Bookman gave him a glare and pointed at the door.

"You broke it. Go fix it," he said and Tarak heaved a defeated sigh as he went to do as he was bidden. Looking back at Kataryna, Bookman said: "I'm sorry. Please continue."

Apparently, she had traveled from Kiev across the Black Sea to vacation in Armenia with her family. However, they were unable to make it and she was to spend a few weeks in their winter home alone. By poor luck, her escort had been slaughtered and she was kidnapped by a group of bandits that dragged her through Iran to the Persian Gulf. She was then sold to a slave trader and put on a ship setting sail for Okha, but troubles with the ship in the Arabian Sea had deterred them from reaching India, and they were forced to stop in Karachi. It being the most prosperous port in Pakistan, it was busy enough for Kataryna to escape. She crossed the Indus, thinking that she was going northwest and not northeast. Which is why she was in Sukkur, she concluded.

"I just want to go home," she said.

Her brown eyes were big and somewhat teary, like she might start crying any second. As if seeing this too, Lavi nudged another cup of tea at her. It didn't help and she practically launched herself at Lavi to start weeping on his shoulder. Lavi looked exasperated, like this had already happened several times before. Tarak, however, turned around to glare at Lavi. In doing so, he dropped the door and it fell on the ground with a loud slam: right on his foot.

"OW! SH—"

"—IT!"

The swear was completed by none other than Kataryna, who had jumped at the sound of the door falling. In doing so, she had flailed her arm out, striking her full cup of hot tea, which spilled it all over her hand and leg. Kataryna looked flustered and tried to clean up the mess, but only succeeded in spilling more tea everywhere.

By the end of the whole incident, Tarak was left to ice his toe and Kataryna had to have her hand treated for burns. Now if that wasn't a miserable match made in heaven, Bookman wasn't sure what else could be.

**pqpq**

"Can she travel with us?" Tarak asked, later that night.

He was lying on a makeshift bed next to the couch with his iced foot propped up when he asked this. Bookman had forfeited his room to Kataryna, which meant that Tarak was stuck on the floor with Lavi for the night.

"No," said Bookman and Lavi at the same time.

"Why?" Tarak asked, looking down at Lavi.

"She cries too much," Lavi replied quietly, going back to his book (where on Earth did he keep getting so many of them?) while pulling the blanket up over his head a little.

"She's been through a lot," Tarak defended her weakly.

"You just like looking at her," Lavi replied, his nose not leaving _Candide_ for a minute.

Tarak's face turned a slight shade of red.

"That's not the only thing. I think Kataryna is a very interesting person," Tarak said.

"Interesting to look at," came Lavi's reply from under the blanket.

"Shut up," Tarak said, smacking him upside the head.

In the moment of silence that followed, the sound of light footsteps reached their ears. Lavi immediately was off his elbows and lying down under the blanket as if he were sleeping; Bookman had never seen him move that quickly before. The reason as to why was made apparent when Kataryna appeared in the bedroom doorway. She seemed embarrassed with Tarak and Bookman looking at her expectantly.

"I-I was looking for…" she struggled trying to remember most likely some English equivalent. "_Molodoi chelovek_?"

She said this and made a gesture with her hand, indicating a short person of about Lavi's height.

"You mean Ravi?" Tarak asked, looking down at the redhead trying to pretend to be sleeping next to him.

Her face brightened and she nodded.

"Do you need help with something?" Tarak asked, looking eager. "Because I can help. I'm really into helping."

She looked a bit confused at his interest and declined him politely. Tarak, a little bitter perhaps, nudged Lavi none-too-gently in the stomach.

"Go help Miss Kataryna," Tarak said to the younger boy, who was glaring hate at him.

Grudgingly, Lavi sat up and made a show that he was waking, with rather convincing yawns and stretches. Kataryna twittered somewhat at Lavi's mussed up hair in the sense that led Bookman to believe she found it adorable no matter how untidy. She set out to flattening it with her hand as she led Lavi back into the bedroom with her and closed the door.

It was silent for a moment after that, although Bookman could tell Tarak was straining his ears to listen if they were talking about him or acting in the consummation of love.

"Stupid kid. Gets all the women…" Tarak muttered darkly, rolling over on his side.

His foot slid off the pillows and hit the ground, making the dark-haired boy swear up and down in several languages at the damage to his already injured toe. Although Tarak couldn't see it, Bookman was shaking his head at his clumsiness.

"Fuck you, karma. Fuck you," Tarak mumbled, pulling the blankets over him.

Over the next half hour, all they could hear were some murmurs and then Kataryna's crying for a few moments, and then nothing at all until.

**pqpq**

Needless to say, because of the incidents the day prior, they were not able to cross the Indus the next day. However, Bookman made certain that they would reserve their passage by that evening so they could leave Sukkur and be on their way.

But that left a whole day with nothing constructive to do. Except keep Tarak from killing Lavi and keep Lavi from killing himself and also keep Kataryna from crying. Bookman was doing all he could not to kill them all.

"You're crossing the Indus and heading northwest?" she asked that morning at breakfast.

She had certainly taken a liking to Lavi and seated herself next to him at the table. The redhead looked like he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before, and not for the perverted reasons that were probably racing through Tarak's small mind.

"Yes. We are on our way to Qandahar now," Bookman replied easily, making Tarak and Lavi look at him curiously.

The original story had been that they were going to Zhob, but now that there was a potential person who might be tagging along behind them, Bookman presumed it would be better to speak of the direction they were actually going. After all, they wanted to observe these strange phenomena that had littered the papers and been the talk in every tavern from here to India.

"I see," said Kataryna, looking down at her tea miserably.

There was a moment of uneasy silence at the table. Tarak looked in between Kataryna and Bookman like there was something they knew that he didn't. Hopefully his sick mind wasn't thinking something along the lines of an intimate physical relationship.

"I would hate to ask, but…" she looked up at all of them with big, tearful, and pleading eyes. "I don't know if I will be able to make it home by myself. You're the first people I've met who can speak English. Please, may I travel with you? Just as far as Qandahar, I beg you!"

Bookman was going to reply in the negative. No amount of tears could change his mind. A Bookman's life was a solitary one, except in the case of master and apprentice. That was all that was permitted. Adding too many others asked for problems…But Tarak was looking pleading as well for her to stay and Lavi was looking pleading probably because he just didn't want her to cry on him anymore.

"Only as far as Qandahar," Bookman replied stiffly.

"_Dyakooyu_!" she cried, grabbing Lavi in a big hug.

Tarak looked like he wished he were the one being hugged, while Lavi appeared to be wishing he were underneath the sofa where she couldn't reach him.

**pqpq**

Buying passage for four that evening was a lot more than Bookman expected. Standing beside the boatyard house, they were debating ways to make it cheaper on their purses, at least until they could reach a bigger city that had established bank accounts for the Bookmen.

"We could just put Ravi inside of a bag and carry him on," Tarak suggested with a grin.

Lavi made a convulsive movement, probably remembering the time the twins had put him inside of that burlap sack and carried him around.

"No! Don't do that to Ravikins," Kataryna said, putting her arms around Lavi protectively.

Lavi was too busy mouthing 'Ravikins?' at Tarak and Bookman to even look bothered that he was being touched again.

"I don't have a lot of money, but I can try to help," she continued, pulling out her money pouch despite Tarak's protesting efforts to get her to stop.

It was the same one that Lavi had picked up in the market and had tried to give back to her, only to be "fake" kidnapped. Opening it, Kataryna dumped the contents into her hand. There were a few coins, a small locket, a tiny crucifix, and…

"Are those…diamonds?" Tarak asked, his eyes wide.

"I'm not sure. I took them from the captain of the slave ship I was on," Kataryna said, looking away.

"How'd you manage that?" Tarak inquired, curiously picking up one of the stones.

"Men don't seem to guard their wallets well when they're seducing a woman," she replied.

All they could see of her were her eyes because of the veil she had donned once more to avoid detection (after all, how many blonde European women were wandering around Pakistan?). She looked uneasy and a little ashamed.

"I don't know their worth," she said. "But this is all I have."

Bookman had taken a diamond and was looking at it in the light. The cut and color were right, also the way the stone distributed the light, so Bookman had a fair idea that they were most likely real.

Kataryna gave Bookman three to exchange for currency, which he did in a shady part of the marketplace. He was certainly glad that he did not bring the other three down to that area, as it was dangerous for women and children (Tarak fell into both of those categories, in Bookman's opinion).

Upon returning to the yard, Bookman gave Kataryna every penny of it, only asking for her portion of the fare.

"B-But, please, take it, _Dobrodiyu_," she insisted, still being respectful.

"I will not. We will not be indebted to you, Miss Kataryna," Bookman replied.

"You are serving as my escort. If anything, I am indebted to you," answered Kataryna. "And as I cannot pay you a wage, I insist on at least covering travel expenses."

Still, Bookman would not accept it. If there was anything he learned from so many years of traveling, it was not relying on the kindness of strangers. She looked dismayed, but eventually broke down and only paid her portion.

"So, Ravi," Tarak said, putting his hand on top of Lavi's head to lean on him like a cane. "We're going to have to put you in a bag, just so you know."

"…fine…" Lavi mumbled, looking annoyed.

"Don't worry. We'll leave it mostly open so you can breathe," said Tarak, cackling somewhat evilly.

"How considerate of you."

**pqpq**

"If anyone asks, you are to be wed," Bookman said, indicating Tarak and Kataryna when they returned to their hotel.

Kataryna had taken off her veil and headscarf when he said this and whipped around just like Tarak in attention.

"What?" they asked, the both of them flushing so red they gave Lavi's hair a run for its money.

"Miss Kataryna is your fiancé," Bookman clarified to Tarak, and they blushed harder.

"It's better than being in a bag," Lavi grumbled as he walked by them.

All through dinner, Tarak and Kataryna kept looking at each other and then hurrying to look away. It was quite childish, Bookman thought, but didn't say anything instead choosing to glare disapprovingly at the both of them.

**pqpq**

That night, it stormed horribly. The wind and rain shook the windows loudly in their frames, waking Bookman up. It was either that or the floor shaking snores coming from Tarak, which Bookman wouldn't doubt.

He was about to go back to sleep, when he saw that the space beside Tarak was empty. Although that was good for Lavi, most likely getting sleep away from the snoring train that was Bookman's older apprentice, the old man had to wonder exactly where he went.

A flickering light slanted on the wall next to the sofa caught his attention, making Bookman lean over to look for the source of the brightness. There was a lit candle and an inkwell partially under the table adjacent to where Bookman was lying. He saw a hand holding a quill emerge from beneath the table and dipped into the ink before disappearing again.

"What are you doing up?" Bookman asked.

The sound of a quill tip ripping through the page let Bookman know he had startled Lavi more than he had meant to.

"Can't sleep," was the reply.

Thunder rumbled outside and Bookman saw that his hand trembled slightly as it went for more ink.

"I don't like storms," Lavi said, knowing Bookman would ask.

Bookman made a noncommittal noise and prepared to go back to bed.

"Aren't you going to tell me to go to sleep?" he asked.

"Go whenever you wish," Bookman replied, closing his eyes. "Do not complain tomorrow if you're tired because you stayed up too late."

It was quiet for a long time except for the soft scratching of Lavi's quill.

"I never do," he said, thinking Bookman to be asleep.

But he wasn't and laid awake for a long time after that, listening to the storm.

**pqpq**

The next morning, with Lavi inside his own bag ("How'd you do that?" Tarak asked, amazed; Lavi grinned and said something about being flexible, when Bookman knew for a fact that it was the twins' invention allowing him to fit inside such a small space), they set out in the light rain to the boatyard.

"At least you're not getting wet," Tarak mumbled to Lavi, leading a flustered Kataryna along by the arm.

It didn't take very long to get across the Indus at all, although they had to cluster one or twice around the bag so Lavi could come up for air without being seen. In the meantime, Tarak spent a lot of time obviously fawning over Kataryna and actually engaged with a fellow passenger about their wedding. He sounded a lot more normal and at ease than before.

Once on the other side of the river, they walked a little while away from the port to an unpopulated area to let Lavi out of the bag. A chicken popped out, squawking and flapping its wings.

It startled Kataryna so badly that she fell backwards. Tarak tried to catch her, but ended up falling on top of her. Bookman turned to look at them as Lavi stuck his head out of his bag, gasping for air. He saw Kataryna and Tarak on the ground with the chicken clucking nearby and made a face.

"You're not supposed to say stuff in a situation like this, are you?" Lavi asked as he pulled himself out of his messenger bag.

Bookman shook his head in reply. Tarak started to dither and apologize, trying to stand and help Kataryna up, but they ended up falling over again this time laughing stupidly.

"_Kids…_" Bookman thought, shaking his head.

The chicken came over to him and started to peck at his boot. There was a string around its neck with a letter attached to it. Leaning over, Bookman took it and opened it.

"_WE MISS YOU! PERCY THE MAGICAL CHICKEN CAME TO DELIVER THIS MESSAGE WITH LOVE! DO NOT EAT HIM! –MANAS & GANESA (AND JEZA)."_

"I think we're going to have chicken for dinner tonight."

**pqpq**

After Tarak and Kataryna had finally managed to get up again without falling down and Lavi had taken the chicken out into the nearest woods to set it free so Bookman wouldn't kill it, they started onwards again.

The further north they head, the colder it became. Tarak had given his cloak to Kataryna to wear during a particularly windy day until they reached a small town where she purchased one for herself. Bookman caught him snuggling into his cloak when he got it back, breathing in Kataryna's scent deeply with a loving look on his face. It was downright creepy to Bookman, who told him to stop it and Tarak did, thankfully.

A day or so outside of Quetta, they ran into a little bit of snow in the evening and took residence in a small inn. That night, they sat around the fire pit in the floor for warmth. Kataryna was telling Tarak stories about her country while Lavi was wrapped in a blanket and lying on his stomach reading another book. Bookman was searching through the paper for any more clues as to the strange disappearances and destruction happening around their location. Although there had been accounts of these phenomena happening between the borders of Pakistan and Afghanistan, they had yet to run into anything strange…

Kataryna's voice dragged him out of a strange report and Bookman looked up at her question.

"Ravikins, what happened to your eye? Were you hurt?" she asked gently.

Bookman saw Lavi go stiff, gripping the edges of the book a little tighter than necessary.

"He doesn't like to talk about it," Tarak said quickly, noticing it too.

They didn't have a story for that. They didn't even have the truth. Bookman was thankful that Tarak covered so well.

"I'm sorry," Kataryna apologized, looking embarrassed.

"It's not an injury," Lavi said quietly, making everyone look at him curiously.

His face was turned away, his hand touching the eye patch. But after a stretch of silence, he looked around to see them all staring at him expectantly. Probably not thinking that he had been heard, Lavi flushed slightly and moved away from all of them.

"…never mind…" he mumbled. "I'm going to bed…"

No one said anything after that.

**pqpq**

When they reached Quetta, it had already snowed there. It was the first place that they had encountered with more than just a dusting and Tarak had fun throwing a few snowballs. That is until one hit Bookman and he kicked the tall boy in response. Kataryna got so worried about him that she fretted for a good half hour over Tarak; he didn't seem to mind the attention.

Lavi trailed behind them after a while, jumping in and out of their footprints. At first, Bookman thought this might be the first example of playful behavior from the youngest of the party. But then he realized that Lavi was doing it in order not to sink even further into the snow than he had to by using imprints already there. After a few kilometers of this, Tarak took pity on him and picked Lavi up to carry him.

Even in the winter, the famous yellow bricks of the city were visible. Tarak pointed them out to Kataryna and started to tell her all about the history of Quetta as they walked through the town.

Bookman found lodgings in the hotel closest to the end of town. They would have to endure a day of trekking over the hills to leave, so he left that for the following day. Resting before tackling a challenge like that was the wisest choice.

After dinner and some socializing (Tarak and Kataryna talking in the same room that Bookman and Lavi were reading in), they went to bed. Kataryna stayed in the same hotel room as them, so she took one bedroom and Bookman took the other, leaving Tarak and Lavi to sleep out on the couch. Judging from the scuffling that went on in the living room and then the triumphant laugh, Tarak got the sofa, leaving the floor to Lavi.

In the middle of the night, Bookman woke up to strange noises coming from the room over from them. It sounded like a group people were moving furniture and dog fighting at the same time, or something like that. After an hour or so, it finally quieted and Bookman was able to go back to sleep.

**pqpq**

The next morning, Bookman found that no one was there. The couch was empty. Kataryna's door was closed and Bookman didn't feel like waking her just yet. She was almost as tiring as Tarak.

Next door, the dog fighting furniture movers were at it again. Bookman shook his head, ready to go over there and ask them just what in the Hell they were doing so late and night and early in the morning that they had to make those sounds.

But Kataryna's bedroom door opened and Bookman turned around to see Lavi standing in the doorway stretching. When he opened his eye, he caught sight of Bookman in the room and went still like a shocked deer.

"What were you doing in there?" Bookman asked.

"Nothing…" Lavi replied quickly, but still looking sleep tousled and not awake yet.

Bookman came closer to him and Lavi took a few steps back until his back was against the wall. Kataryna's room was empty except for a big bundle of pillows and blankets that had been tossed carelessly around the bed.

"Where did they go?" Bookman asked, turning his attention to Lavi.

"Out…"

"Out where?"

"Out…side…"

"Outside where?"

"Uh…outside…outside…"

Lavi wasn't a very good liar early in the morning. Bookman could almost see the wheels in his brain struggling to start.

"Go sit," Bookman said, pointing at the couch.

He obeyed and went to sit there, curling up underneath the blanket that he had draped over his shoulders.

"They let you sleep in that bed to cover for them, didn't they?" Bookman asked.

"Yup."

"You've been bought rather cheaply."

The furniture movers were still at it next door. Bookman turned his head to look at the wall dividing their room from the other one.

"I've only slept in a bed a few times. That one's really comfortable…" Lavi said, dragging Bookman's attention back to him.

"They're next door aren't they?" Bookman asked.

"No," Lavi answered, unconvincingly.

Bookman crossed his arms, annoyed.

"You go get them. I will make breakfast," Bookman said.

"Are you going to hurt them?" Lavi asked, getting up.

"Yes," he replied, not even bothering to lie.

**pqpq**

After Lavi had left, Bookman was making tea and listening through the thin walls as to what was going on next door. The sounds stopped after a moment and then there was speaking.

"Oh, hell no! PUT PANTS ON OR SOMETHING!"

"I WAS A LITTLE BUSY!"

Then a female voice:

"I'm sorry!"

"It's not your fault, don't say that…"

"I DON'T CARE! PANTS! NOW!"

"WHY DOES IT BOTHER YOU SO MUCH ANYWAY?! YOU HAVE ONE TOO!"

"BECAUSE IT'S AT EYE LEVEL! GET IT OUT OF MY FACE!"

"I'LL SHOW YOU IN YOUR FACE!"

There was some scrambling.

"OH GOD! GET IT AWAY!"

"MUHAHAHAHAHA!"

"PLEASE PUT PANTS ON!"

"You have to be the strangest brothers I've ever seen…"

**pqpq**

"Are you sure?" Tarak asked, looking tortured.

Bookman looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Of course he was, as Bookman wasn't one to joke.

"Yes. It cannot happen," Bookman replied. "You must choose."

He and Tarak were sitting at the table talking quietly. Lavi took Kataryna to the market in the meantime. She looked like she didn't want to leave Tarak, but had no choice in the matter and put on her cloak and scarf to go out.

"I can't have an intimate relationship with anyone?" Tarak asked, turning his empty cup around in his hands.

"If you remain emotionally detached and it stays purely physical, you can engage in a relationship if you wish," Bookman answered truthfully; there were no rules that said Bookmen had to be celibate.

"We really can't get married or…have kids?" Tarak inquired, looking up at Bookman like he thought he was being lied to.

"Did anyone ever tell you what this position would entail?" Bookman asked; maybe no one had ever explained to him the rules of being a Bookman. "There are rules, strict guidelines that have been followed since the establishment of the Clan. They cannot be changed or broken."

"I know, but I thought…maybe…it'd be different," Tarak answered weakly, adverting his eyes.

"It isn't," Bookman said truthfully. "You must choose."

Tarak was quiet and thoughtful for a long time. The light filtering in through the shades moved from the floor to the table. Once it reached Tarak's hands, Bookman spoke again.

"It is either the apprenticeship or Miss Kataryna," he said, awaiting an answer; if Tarak had to think about it so much, perhaps neither was the best choice for him.

Silent for a little while longer, Tarak finally looked up at Bookman. His brown eyes were determined and his jaw was set.

"If that is your decision," Bookman said with a nod.

"I didn't say anything yet," Tarak replied, pouting a little.

"You didn't have to," said Bookman. "Your face is too open."

Tarak deadpanned for a split second, but then smiled easily, breaking the effect.

"Oh, well," he sighed, putting his hands behind his head. "Sorry…"

He was still grinning sheepishly, which didn't make it any better.

**pqpq**

They ended up staying another night in Quetta. The events of the morning had delayed them too much to make it across the hilly terrain by the evening. It served for a very awkward situation in which Kataryna and Tarak did a lot of twitching and glancing at each other while Lavi tried not to look at either of them, as when he did, he wore a disgusted face. Then Tarak would smirk and Kataryna would blush, so Bookman just glared at them all to get them to stop.

That night, after they all went into their separate rooms (Kataryna had been banished to next door and Tarak was under strict orders that he was not allowed to go over there and move furniture again) Bookman heard quiet voices out in the living room.

"So are you really going?" came Lavi's voice, soft and quiet through the door.

"Yes, I am. I love her, crazy as it sounds," was Tarak's reply.

"Okay. But are you sure?"

"Yeah."

There was silence for a moment except for the sound of someone shifting uncomfortably.

"Are you staying, then?" Tarak asked.

"Well, yeah. I don't have anywhere else to go."

More silence.

"You could always come with me and Kataryna," said Tarak.

Silence again.

"We'll take care of you, you know. We could all be a family together."

"But what about—"

"He'll be fine by himself. He's been doing this a long time."

There was some rustling of sheets, like someone was getting ready for bed.

"I think I'll stay," Lavi said.

"Why? I mean…sure you get to travel and see new places, but you're never allowed to settle down and have a family or a close relationship with anyone. You'll have to wander every continent with no home, no loved ones to return to or to miss. All you'll see is war and violence and bloodshed. What kind of life is that? Would you want that sort of thing?"

"It doesn't bother me."

A pause hung in the air; Tarak for once didn't know what to say.

"You don't want a family?" he asked quietly. "We could love you, you know. As one of our own children. And maybe you'd have brothers and sisters eventually. We could send you to a good school where you could be educated further and then grow up into something great, and make a good life for yourself with someone you truly love. You wouldn't have to wander the aftermath of the gory battlefields you'll encounter as a Bookman. You wouldn't have to be raised and live your life knowing that kind of hate."

Lavi gave a thoughtful pause, as if mulling all of it over. Certainly for one as young as he, it was natural for him to want comfort and support, and perhaps a loving mother to hold him or tuck him in at night. That offer was something more than Lavi would ever know being a Bookman, and for one human moment, Bookman wanted him to accept.

"Tarak."

"What?"

"…I was born into that kind of hate. So maybe…maybe that's why."

"Why what?"

"Why I want to become a Bookman."

Silence again.

"You don't have to chose that path if you don't want to. You have another choice now. Another choice at another life."

"This one's fine."

"You'll have no one. Ever. You're not allowed. Not even a friend."

"I'll be okay with that."

"You'll be erased forever. No one will ever know you or remember you."

"No one will now, either. I was born as no one and will live as no one and die as no one. My existence will be something that I lead and that no one will ever remember. And it doesn't matter."

"I'll remember you."

"You shouldn't."

"I know. But I will. Kat will too. You were her first hostage."

"What a great way to be remembered."

Tarak laughed before his tone became serious.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes."

"Well, if you change your mind, you'll know where to find us. Our home will always be open to you."

Tarak's footsteps moved into the bedroom. The door closed and it became silent again. At least that's what Bookman told himself to get to sleep that night, anyway.

It was either that lie or listen to Lavi's soft crying.

**pqpq**

In less than a week's time, they reached Qandahar and that morning was when they parted ways.

"So I guess this is for real, huh?" Tarak said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head.

They were all quiet because there wasn't much more to say. Kataryna pulled Lavi aside to shower him with feminine attentions (i.e. hugging and crying) while Tarak and Bookman stood off to the side.

"Heh, you thought I was an idiot anyway," said Tarak, laughing slightly.

"No," Bookman replied. "I know you're an idiot."

Tarak laughed and held out his hand to Bookman, who took it and they shook respectfully. Inside the boy's hand was the small vial of antidote that he had received from Enoch back at the Giving ceremony.

"My forfeit," Tarak said, looking away. "At least I almost made it."

"_Almost_ being the key word," was Bookman's response.

"Are you calling me a quitter?" Tarak asked, then grinned. "It almost sounds like you're trying to be funny."

"Nonsense."

Bookman pocketed the vial in the same pouch on his belt that Nirav's compass occupied. Tarak's smile faded somewhat as he looked over to where Kataryna might have been choking Lavi with affection.

"Look out for him, okay?" Tarak said.

"It is my duty," Bookman replied, just as he had to Dakshina and the twins.

"But I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

"Then will you do it?"

"I do not molly coddle and I am not nice, but I will not be cruel."

"I guess that's the best I can ask for…"

Kataryna had let Lavi go enough so that he could get away, although still gasping for air. Tarak surprised him by catching the redhead in a tight hug.

"Between the way you two slobber all over people, your children are going to be dogs," Lavi grumbled, but let Tarak manhandle him in what he considered an embrace.

"You have to grow up to be just like me! Or else my life will be meaningless!" Tarak insisted.

"Then it'll be meaningless! Why would I want to end up like you?!" Lavi answered.

As they bickered back and forth, Kataryna came and shook hands with Bookman as Tarak had.

"Thank you for everything, Manoj," she said, blushing. "And for your grandson."

"It was no problem," Bookman replied. "May you live a full life together."

"We'll see you again, won't we? Will you come and visit us in Kiev sometime?" she asked.

"Perhaps," Bookman lied.

Kataryna, unknowing of the truth, beamed a beautiful smile.

"Well, I guess we're off, then," Tarak said, coming over with Lavi staggering along behind him.

"_Do pobachennya_!" added Kataryna, waving as they started on their way. "_Na vse dobre_, Ravi!"

Bookman and Lavi stood there as they walked down the road.

"Are you going to miss them?" Bookman asked, lighting a cigarette.

Lavi looked up at him with a completely neutral expression.

"Them who?"

Perfect.

**pqpq**

(Bonus tiem!)

Tarak and Kataryna weren't even out of sight when they tripped and fell in the first hole

in the road at the same time.

"I'm not going to miss that."

"Me neither."

Bookman wondered if they would ever make it to Kiev alive.

**pqpq**

Yay! Another chapter done. I tried my hardest to get this out as soon as possible. I think this is the fastest update yet! Hurrah for the good use of several snow days and multiple study halls!

First of all, I have to say that I loved the people who were like "IT'S DAKSHINA, ISN'T IT!?" at the end of the last chapter. Although that would have made good plot, I was far too lazy to do that. Besides, Tarak had to go, and he's too amusing to have sent back to the Clan. Also, I have another subplot I'm developing with all those original characters. So (for those of you who keep asking), yes, you will see the twins again!

This chapter had its uses, especially after I read Lavi's chapter in the **Reverse** novels. There is a quote in the story in which someone asks about Lavi's eye and whether or not it is an injury. And he replies: _"No, it's not an injury. It's something that led me to become a Bookman._"I'm not sure what that means, but I have a good idea…!

Stuff You Might Want To Know

_shalwar qamiz_ - A traditional style of dress in Pakistan. Men can wear them too, but in this case, it's worn by a woman.

_Molodoi chelovek_ – I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that it's Ukrainian for "young boy"

_Dyakooyu! _– Ukrainian for "Thank You!"

_Dobrodiyu –_ lit. "Sir"

_Do pobachennya_ – Ukrainian: "Good-bye!"

_Na vse dobre_ – Ukrainian "Best of luck!"

Voltaire's _Candide_ is a very amusing book that I just read (unabridged, it's only like 80 pages) and it's considered one of the greatest satires of all time. Voltaire "mercilessly exposes and satirizes romance, science, philosophy, religion and government—the ideas and forces that permeate and control the lives of men." Taken from the back of the book! It's a very entertaining story that I recommend if you have a few hours of your life to waste reading it!

So, now it's on to the real story, eh? **Next chapter**: holds more secrets about the Bookman Clan. What exactly are "akuma" anyway? And does Bookman really have a human side? Aww…we'll see!

Thanks for reading, see you next time!

**Dhampir72**


	18. The Vision

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! I'm glad you enjoyed it!

**Semi-Important Note**: So, this has been bothering me for a while now. In an early chapter of DGM when the Bookmen are introduced, they make it seem like the Bookman Clan has been in existence since _the Great Flood_. However, in most recent chapters, Bookman says something about "all the 100 years of recording", which means that the "clan" really isn't really as old as they make it seem. I'm owing this to a mistake in translation, maybe, or maybe just assumption on my part.

Also, because of my assumption, I assumed that when Lavi was talking about being the **49****th**** Name**, he was talking about being the **49****th**** successor** to the Bookman clan (making Bookman himself the **48****th****)**, not about "Lavi" being his **49****th**** persona**. My bad, everyone. My bad. Since I'm not going to go back and change it, this story begins to really teeter on AU from this point on concerning these facts, meaning that the clan is as almost as old as Christ and that Lavi is going to be the 49th Bookman. So if that bothers you, I'm sorry…I do have a way to make it work, if you're curious, so, maybe that's some bribery for you…

Carry on, (if you still want to…)

**pqpq**

_Precognition is a noun, defined as: the psychic perception of future events or conditions. __Clairvoyance relating to an event or state not yet experienced…_

**pqpq**

The entire city was in ruins, the sky red from the flames that devoured the remains of what had once been a thriving town. It was dead, everything gone and whatever was left was being burnt to ashes. But he still pressed on, knowing the way even when all landmarks were gone.

_**Hurry, hurry.**_

_**Number forty-eight.**_

_**As forty-nine has not much**_

_**Time left to wait.**_

Upon reaching his destination, it was just as everything else was; a building that had collapsed on itself. And through the rubble, he began to sift through it, looking, looking, looking…

_**Hurry, hurry,**_

_**Don't be meek.**_

_**Surrender now and you will never find**_

_**What you seek.**_

He kept digging through the rock and wood, not stopping when his hands began to bleed from his carelessness in his haste. And then he found what he sought: a small hand jutting out from beneath a fallen beam, the first two fingers broken and the wrist bent at an unnatural angle. It was attached to a small elbow and then shoulder and then—

**pqpq**

The next morning in Qandahar dawned bright and early, the sun already pouring into the room through the thin curtains despite the small hour. Bookman stared at the ceiling, blinking the images out of his mind. It had been a long time since he dreamed. A long too many years in which everything he witnessed was seen and recorded and then pushed to the back of mind. He hadn't dreamed since taking the title and position of Bookman. It was one of those things that just happened, most likely a defense mechanism so that the human mind would not torture itself into insanity.

But he _had_ dreamed. And remembered so vividly that the taste of ash was still bitter in his mouth. However, the purpose of the entire scenario was lost upon him. Bookman could remember the destruction and death, but could neither recall what caused it, nor what he had been looking for so desperately…

It no longer mattered, he supposed, getting up and preparing for the day. Dreams weren't fact. Merely a series of images and situations based upon things that had previously been seen or experienced in life. It was foolish to think too much about it, so Bookman did not, ignoring the taste of ashes.

Lavi was up already, although he hadn't moved from his place on the couch from the previous night. The leather-bound journal that he had received at the Giving was propped up against the pillow, his inkwell balancing rather precariously on the arm of the sofa. Lying on his stomach, Lavi was scribbling something inside the book with his quill, not even bothering to spare Bookman a glance; too busy with whatever it was so greatly held his interest.

"'Morning," was his only indication that he acknowledged Bookman.

"Mm," was Bookman's response.

They hadn't spoken much since Tarak had left, probably because there was nothing to say. Once a person entered the clan, they gave their name and their life to their cause. But if they left, then they were shunned and never spoken of again. It was just the way it was and had been for centuries.

Maybe it was because of the dream or the lack of sleep because of said dream that made food unappetizing. Bookman instead nursed a strong cup of hot tea, standing beside the window to look out at the town outside their hotel.

Qandahar was the capital city of the province that shared its name. It was Afghanistan's second largest city and one of the vital trade centers in the country. Qandahar laid on the original trade routes to central Asia for good reason, as it supplied everything one could imagine: cottons, silks, wool, fruits, livestock, tobacco, and grain. The city was so appealing to Bookman, not because of these facts, but because of its history.

After being founded by Alexander the Great in the 4th Century B.C., the city was fought over for centuries afterwards. Qandahar changed hands many times, conquered by the Arabs, then by the Turks, later by Genghis Khan himself and the Mongols, afterwards by India, then by the Persians, before Afghanistan was finally independent and able to keep it as their own.

Although rather old, the city was prosperous and large. There were plenty of people who lived and worked in Qandahar. That meant there had to be people who knew more about these strange phenomena that had been in every paper and the talk in every tavern.

"I don't like it here."

Bookman turned around to regard Lavi, who was still scribbling away in his journal.

"There's something wrong with this place," Lavi continued, pausing to get more ink before going back to whatever it was he was doing.

"Why would you say that?" Bookman asked.

Lavi looked up at him for the first time that morning and Bookman could see how tired he looked. It was strange, Bookman mused, to see someone with only one dark circle under their eye. But the impact was stronger, it seemed, as the single eye with its single dark circle was peering back at Bookman from behind two black straps that secured the patch over his other eye. His eye looked greener, too, although duller because of tiredness. There was something there, though, that Bookman couldn't describe. As if Lavi was trying to tell him something without words…

"Never mind," Lavi said, focusing back on his book.

Bookman looked back out the window, watching the people below heading to the central market for the morning to sell their goods.

"What are we going to do?" asked Lavi after a stretch of silence.

_About what?_ Bookman almost asked, the dream still in his mind. Why could he not forget it but still not remember it all? He admonished himself for still thinking about it.

"Research," Bookman replied. "Observation. Training."

"Sounds like a drag," mumbled Lavi from the couch.

**pqpq**

Bookman went out to the market that morning and returned shortly after back to the hotel room. Lavi was dressed and kneeling at the table, waiting for him like Bookman had told him to before leaving. When he came in, Lavi had been writing again in his journal, but by the time the door had been shut, the inkwell and book and quill had been cleared away. Bookman had to wonder exactly what he felt he had to keep writing down.

Coming over to the table, Bookman sat across from Lavi, putting the bag of what he had purchased on the floor beside him. Lavi's head tilted slightly to the side in question.

"We begin your training today," Bookman said. "As you are the only remaining candidate, it is you who will become my apprentice."

Lavi's expression didn't change from that look of impassiveness that he normally wore. If Bookman would have really thought about it in depth, he should have been worried that such a young child could be so stoic. But he didn't worry about it, pleased to have such a person under his tutelage.

From his belt, Bookman produced three items and laid them out on the table exactly three inches apart. Tarak's bottle of curing elixir, Nirav's brass compass, and Chi's elegant dagger all made different sounds when set on the wood tabletop: the glass a light _clink_, the compass a small _hiss_ as the chain coiled like a snake, while the dagger made a loud _clunk_ as its heavy and ornate sheath was laid to rest.

Lavi stared at the items placed out before him with the same unmoving expression on his face.

"They all belong to you now," Bookman said, in case he did not know.

"Why?" Lavi asked, looking up.

"Because," Bookman began, "these three items, plus the gift you received at the Giving, are all symbolic of the pillars of the Bookman Clan."

A moment of silence stretched between them, in which Lavi stared at the gifts glittering in the sunlight on the table while Bookman looked out the window at the blue sky.

"Do you still have yours?"

Bookman tore his gaze away from the lazy sky to look back at Lavi. His attention was focused on the shining items on the table, his fingertips touching the coiled chain on the compass.

Lavi had very small hands, Bookman observed. They were quite unlike a normal child's hands. Normally children had small, rather pudgy hands with unsure fingers. Lavi did not. Although his hands were small, they were thin and his fingers were rather bony. But they weren't clumsy, instead sure and precise, already with dexterity beyond his years. His ring finger was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and not set properly many years ago.

"I was just curious, you don't have to tell me anything," Lavi said, when Bookman was silent in his observations.

Reaching into a back belt pouch pocket, Bookman pulled out his own compass. It was old, well-used, and attempted to be well-cared for. The compass was silver and tarnished, but still worked and Bookman had used it in his travels for many years.

Bookman placed the compass on the table next to Lavi's brass one, its chain buckling as it tried to coil, so ancient that it could no longer smoothly do so. The old, tarnished thing looked like a bitter beast next to the smooth and shiny yellow metal of the new compass. In some ways, it was highly appropriate.

Lavi was staring at the two objects, as if trying to discern the differences between the two. He reached out to touch Bookman's, but looked like he thought better of it and retracted his hand.

"These objects will help you on your way to becoming my successor," Bookman said, indicating the items on the table.

The redhead picked up the dagger and looked at it in a sort of doubtful way.

"Yes, even that," Bookman said to his expression. "There will come a time when you will have to defend yourself against someone." Or _something_.

"It's heavy," Lavi said, more to himself as he held the weapon.

If only he knew how heavy it would become over time. The years and years of haunting battlefields like a ghost, writing and writing, always writing everything down as the people kept dying and dying and _burning_. Bookman could taste the ashes again.

"Take care of them and they will in turn take care of you," Bookman said, continuing on as if he hadn't stopped.

A nod from Lavi showed that he was listening.

"Clear them away. We are moving on to something else now."

They disappeared like the journal had and Lavi's attention was on Bookman. His eye looked tired, but he was doing a good job of not letting it affect his posture or expression.

"Now," Bookman began, folding his hands in front of him as he spoke. "As my successor, there is much that you have to learn. I am assuming that no one ever fully explained to you what being a Bookman entailed."

Lavi shook his head.

"Then let's start somewhere: what do you know about the Bookmen?"

Bookman's question was met with silence as Lavi thought.

"Not very much," he admitted after a moment. "I didn't even know who you were until Dakshina-san told me. And all she told me was that you were important; one of the highest ranks in the clan."

"That is all true, but did she explain to you what I do as Bookman?" he asked and Lavi shook his head in the negative.

Bookman knew that it was too good to be true. Here he had such a promising student for a position that he knew nothing about.

"She had me archive your scrolls, though," Lavi said, interpreting Bookman's silence as one of disappointment. "So I know you're a historian."

"Although that is true, it is not completely accurate," Bookman replied; a confused look shadowed across Lavi's face for a fraction of a second. "We do not only record the happenings that will one day fill history books. There is much that will never make it into those volumes. We focus the majority of our efforts on this hidden history of the world."

"A hidden history…? That no one can read?" Lavi asked, still appearing a little confused.

"Yes, the history that no one can read. It is privileged information that is passed down between Bookmen and kept within our clan and only our clan. It has been that way for centuries."

Lavi now looked doubtful, as if he didn't believe any of what Bookman was saying.

"This knowledge will be shared with you one day. When you officially become my successor," Bookman said. "Do not disregard it in the meantime. You will witness things during our travels that will fall into this category and they are not to be taken lightly."

A nod from Lavi told Bookman that he was following.

"Good. We will set that aside for now and talk about technique," Bookman said, for some reason not wanting to delve deeper into the secrets of the Bookmen. He attributed it to being tired from a poor night's sleep and pushed the images from his dream out of his mind. "As a Bookman, you will have to learn many different ways of acquiring and retaining information. A sharp mind is an important key to successful recordings."

Bookman reached into the bag beside him and pulled out a peach. It was a ripe color, with a small scratch just barely visible in the skin and no glaring bruises at all. Lavi watched him as Bookman held the peach in his right hand as he continued to speak. As he lectured Lavi on specific recording techniques, Bookman moved the peach around in his hands in certain patterns. Right, left, right, toss to the left, right, toss up back into the right, left, toss to the right…

When he was through speaking, Bookman stopped and replaced the peach back into the bag next to him, moving it slightly toward the bottom. Then he picked up the paper sack and put it on the table so that it sat in the middle of the table, slightly away from the both of them so that Bookman could watch Lavi with his own critical eye.

"Now, do everything I just did," Bookman said.

Lavi looked at him and then at the bag.

"Everything?" Lavi asked, not looking as apprehensive as Bookman thought he would.

"Everything," Bookman replied.

"Even the talking?"

Bookman hadn't planned on Lavi remembering every word of his speech, but nodded anyway to see if he could do it.

"Okay…" Lavi said, rising a little on his knees to look inside the bag. "There are a lot of peaches in here…"

He pulled out one and looked at it, putting it down on the table before pulling out another. Repeating this process with five others, Lavi finally found the one that Bookman had had and put that in his right hand. Then he began to speak, the same words that Bookman had spoken not even a moment ago. And as he did it, he moved the peach, his motions perfect in time with the right, left, right, toss to the left, right, toss up back into the right, left, toss to the right…

Then he was through and Lavi stopped, putting the peach down, waiting in silence for Bookman's response. If the old man was honest with himself, he would have said that he was dumbstruck, but Bookman settled for pleasantly surprised, as it didn't make him sound unintelligent.

"Did I…not do it right?" Lavi asked, his voice unsure as he looked at Bookman.

"Where did you learn to do that so well?" Bookman asked; he could see a miniscule relaxation of Lavi's shoulders in relief.

"I just watched and then copied you," Lavi answered. "Wasn't that what I was supposed to do?"

"Yes, that was the purpose of the exercise," Bookman replied. "But what I was referring to was your accurate perception. Certainly you've had training in the past for it."

"No," Lavi answered. "I'm just good at remembering things."

"What kinds of things?"

"All kinds of things. Mostly things out of books, but I'm also good at remembering things that I see."

Bookman had Lavi do the exercise a few more times, each different from the first. He wanted to see if it was just a fluke, but it wasn't. Lavi had an unbelievable talent, especially for someone who only utilized one eye.

"Very good," Bookman said, after Lavi had done it flawlessly for the fifth time. "Enough of that for today, we have an errand to run."

Lavi nodded and got up from the table with Bookman, following him to the door. As they put their shoes on, it didn't escape Bookman's notice that Lavi's only visible green eye was lighter than before, as if the dull tiredness had been lifted through his praise.

**pqpq**

They walked to the nearest square where Bookman found a telephone. Lavi watched Bookman closely, curiously, as he put a patch through to one of the few telephones back at the clan. A secretary in North forwarded him to Enoch's office directly, where it wasn't the Shepherd who picked up, but…

"Ehhhhh? BONJOUR?!"

Bookman held the phone away from his ear as the person on the other line shouted this. Lavi looked at the receiver as the annoying voice spilled out from it.

"Is that Manas?" he asked.

"LAVIIIIII! IT'S YOOOOOU!" came the loud voice.

There was some commotion on the other end.

"WOW! IS IT REALLY—"

"POSITIVELY—"

"ABSOLUTELY—"

"YOU!?"

The twins could even be annoying over the telephone.

"HOW'S THAT MEAN PANDA TREATING YOU!?"

Why did everyone refer to Bookman as such?

"That mean panda is standing right here," Bookman said in his coldest voice, and could practically hear Manas and Ganesa step back a few steps in fear before they began, a little nervously:

"Heya, Bookman!"

"How you doing, good chap?"

Bookman thought he should really kill them one day.

"I need to speak with Enoch. Please release his phone as your hostage so that I may talk to him," Bookman said.

"He's not here right now," said one of the twins.

"Out romancing his lady friend," said the other.

"Enoch and Dakshina—"

"Sitting in a tree—"

"K-I-S-S—"

"-I-N-G—"

"What are you two, five?" Bookman asked, his eye twitching slightly in annoyance.

"TWENTY-FIVE!" they replied at the same time, forcing Bookman to hold the phone away from him again.

"What. Ever," Bookman got out through gritted teeth. "One of you go and get Enoch."

"Okay, Manas," said Ganesa. "Let's rock, scissors, paper for it."

There was some slapping and booing noises.

"Bookmaaaaan! Ganesa keeps cheating and reading my mind!" Manas whined.

"Can one of you go get an adult to fetch Enoch?"

"Only if you tell us what happened to Percy," said one of them.

"Percy was a magical chicken! What happened to him?" asked the other.

"I ate him," Bookman replied dryly, making the both of them cry.

Unable to deal with their idiocy for very long, Bookman tried to give the phone to Lavi, but he looked so offended by the wailing coming from the receiver that he didn't take it. When they finally calmed down enough, Lavi took the phone from Bookman, although looked suspicious of it, as if it might bite him. Then Bookman realized that he had probably never seen or used a phone before, so that could attribute to his strange behavior with it.

"Manas? Ganesa? Are you done whining yet?" he asked.

"WE AREN'T WHINING!" they yelled, making Lavi wince and move away from the phone as their voices pierced through the lines.

"No, now you're shouting."

They went quiet and then Bookman could only hear Lavi's one-sided conversation with them.

"No, Percy's okay. I let him out in the woods outside of Sukkur. Hopefully wolves don't get him."

There was some muffled yelling after that, and Bookman focused his gaze on watching people walking by. "_I don't like it here. There's something wrong with this place._" It was either the dream he had had or Lavi's strange words that morning that had made something not sit well with him. It was as if there _was_ something wrong that he couldn't quite name.

"It's hot. We're in the desert right now."

Everything looked normal, though. That was the problem. And the sky was such a trusting shade of blue that it felt like there couldn't be anything wrong, but there was still that nagging, nagging feeling that he couldn't get rid of.

"I dunno. But go and get Enoch."

Barely any wind and the sun was a hot gleam in the sky. It was all normal. Maybe Bookman was imagining things.

"Oh, well, you're gonna have to go interrupt him anyway…"

It was stupid that he was so upset by a feeling. After all, a Bookman was supposed to rely upon facts and evidence, not flimsy things such as emotions or, in this case, instinct.

"Yeah. Mmn hmm. That's good. Yeah, and thanks for _Candide_. I liked i—hi, Enoch. Fine. Mn, hold on," Lavi said, handing the phone to Bookman.

"Enoch," Bookman said.

"Bookman," came Enoch's reply from the other end. "How are your travels going?"

In the background, Bookman could hear Manas and Ganesa squabbling, also the sound of two women, presumably Dakshina and Jeza, trying to get them to be quiet so that Enoch could hear and not have to shout.

"As well as they can be," Bookman replied, somewhat evasively; Lavi actually tilted his head slightly to look up at him unbelievingly.

"I know that's not true. You never call. Bookmen don't call unless something's wrong," Enoch said, which caused a hysterical round of screeching in the background, most likely Dakshina, or maybe even the twins, it was difficult to tell. "Hold on a second, Bookman." Enoch must have put the phone to his chest to try and muffle his shouting, so it didn't muffle anything at all. "IF YOU NEED TO SHOUT, GET OUT OF HERE! I CAN'T HERE A GORRAM THING WITH ALL OF YOU IN HERE YELLING!"

Then fell silent and Enoch cleared his throat.

"Sorry about that," he said upon returning. "Now, I presume you have bad news for all of us here."

"I am down to one apprentice," Bookman replied; Lavi made a sort of guilty motion with his body that Bookman couldn't quite describe.

"Oh. I presume the others are on their way back, then?" Enoch asked.

"No. They've all…been dispersed in different ways."

"Define 'dispersed'."

"Scattered; broken up; separated."

"I know what the word means. I am not a complete idiot."

There was some laughing in the background and Enoch did the pressing-the-phone-to-his-chest motion again.

"SHUT UP, YOU TWO! YOU CAN'T EVEN SPELL PHOSPHORESCENT LET ALONE WALK AND CHEW GUM AT THE SAME TIME! SO BE QUIET!"

Some shifting and then Enoch was back, sounding cool and composed.

"What happened?" he asked. "Status report, please."

Bookman knew that Enoch was an emotional man no matter how intelligent. And he also knew that even though Enoch's voice was as composed as possible, he was going to hurt inside at the news. But one had to take it without succumbing to emotion. And Bookman had to give it without showing emotion. He felt he had an unfair advantage over Enoch, because Bookman _could_ do it so well, but only because he had been doing it so long. Maybe he was the one who should be pitied and not the Shepherd.

"Shepherd Dakshina's chosen apprentice is accounted for," Bookman said, glancing down at Lavi, who was sitting on the ground underneath the phone cabinet.

He looked up when mentioned, but said nothing. Lavi was quiet like that, Bookman presumed, trying to ignore a small tug of worry. His face that had been so pale this morning looked flushed, as if he were feverish. Attributing it to the sun, Bookman made a mental note to find better shade after the call was through and to get something to drink. The last thing Bookman needed was a sick child.

"Shepherd Darius's chosen apprentice has entered the priesthood," Bookman continued; he could practically hear Enoch holding his breath to hear what happened to the others, as it was obvious Bookman was choosing to begin with the good news before slipping into the bad. "Shepherd Enoch's chosen apprentice has removed himself from the clan."

"I see. Was there a valid reason?" Enoch asked, most likely gripping the phone for something awful.

"He became enamored with a woman we met in our travels," Bookman replied, and Enoch let out a long sigh of relief: happiness for one of the best in his house.

"And of the last?" Enoch asked, his relief short-lived. "Current status?"

"The current status of Shepherd Rong's chosen apprentice is: deceased," Bookman replied; he saw that Lavi made that strange motion again out of the corner of his eye.

"I see," said Enoch, voice wonderfully composed and formal. "I shall inform Shepherd Rong of this development. Report received."

Enoch must have passed off the phone and left, because there was a moment of prolonged silence and then Dakshina's voice.

"Bookman," was her greeting.

"Shepherd Dakshina," was his reply.

"Almost. Shepherd Rune is not doing well," she said, referring to the actual North Shepherd, whose health was steadily failing.

"Send him my well wishes," Bookman said, but more as a formality than anything.

"I shall," she replied, but then her voice lost its business-like tone. "How is Lavi?"

"Awful. I abuse him everyday," Bookman said.

"Not humorous, Bookman. I'm being serious," Dakshina answered sourly.

"He is fine," Bookman replied, glancing down at Lavi again to make sure this was true.

The redhead had his knees drawn to his chest and was curled up under the phone cabinet as if he was seeking the darkest possible place in such bright light.

"Would you like to speak to him?" Bookman asked.

"No, that is fine," she said in a rather uncharacteristic stiffness.

Then she must have passed the phone off because all of a sudden Bookman was assaulted by the grating voices of the twins fighting over the line.

"Stop it, you idiots, or I will hang up on you," Bookman threatened, and they immediately shut up.

"Oh, man. What did you say? I've never seen Dakshina and Enoch look so pissed before," said one of the twins.

"You will find out, I'm sure," Bookman replied.

"Pretty please tell us?" asked the other.

"No," Bookman said.

"Well then can you tell us where you are? Ganesa and I have been betting that you're in Georgia about now," said Manas.

"No. We're in Afghanistan," Bookman answered; there was some hissing of disappointment. "You try making it across the country with four idiots in tow."

"No excuses!" Manas said.

"You're a lot further behind than we thought," said Ganesa.

"We're actually kind of disappointed," said Manas.

"Get over it," was Bookman's reply.

"We love and miss you too," they said.

"But be careful out there," said one of them.

"Because we've been listening to the telegraph _and_ the scanner and there's some weird stuff happening around where you are," said the other.

"That's the reason we're here," Bookman said.

"Well, in any case, just be careful," the first said.

"Because you have precious cargo now," said the second.

Bookman made a noncommittal noise and looked down at Lavi again to make sure he was still conscious, as he hadn't moved an inch since taking that position. Placing a hand on top of Lavi's head, Bookman could feel the heat practically radiating off his apprentice. He hoped that it was just Lavi reacting badly to the heat and that it was not something more.

"We mean it! If you ignore us we're go—" they were saying as Bookman hung up the phone.

"Come along," Bookman said, straightening up.

Lavi got up from his spot a little slowly, but managed to do so without falling. That was good, because there was no way that Bookman was going to carry him.

**pqpq**

They took a seat in a lunch hall. It was cool inside because of the fans running, although one could barely hear them over the sounds of people talking, all of them milling in to lunch.

Lavi was curled up in the same position across the table from Bookman. The hood on his cloak was drawn over his head, making him appear smaller than ever. A woman came over to their table and placed a cold tin pitcher of water on their table along with two hand-glazed cups.

After ordering a tray of local fruits, Bookman poured the both of them some water. He nudged the fullest cup at Lavi.

"Drink. You're dehydrated," Bookman said, drinking a little himself.

Lavi obeyed, but didn't uncurl from his position. While sitting there, Bookman listened to the conversations around them, piquing at anything that sounded to be of interest. The two people in the booth behind them were speaking of such a subject.

"…and he disappeared a few days after his wife died. No one's seen him since…"

"You don't think he killed himself, do you?"

"No…well, maybe…but wouldn't we have found him by now?"

"Hmmm…"

Even the women were talking.

"Isn't it strange? All of those disappearances recently?"

"Shh! You know we're not supposed to talk about it. It upsets the customers."

"But isn't it strange?"

"I think it's queer too."

"We should get back to work…"

"But it just doesn't make sense. A lot of them only disappeared after someone…you know…"

"And they couldn't all have killed themselves!"

"Shh! What did I say? If the boss hears us we'll be fired."

"You know the boss lost his little girl last week in that accident."

"Oh, I heard. Come to think of it…I haven't seen him around in a few days…"

"You don't think…."

"No, let's just get back to work."

Two boys were pestering a group of construction crew workers.

"Papa, I'm not lying! I said I saw what I saw because I saw it!"

"Enough out of you boys."

"But…!"

"I saw it too!"

"I must tell your mother to stop telling you two fantasy stories before bed!"

"But we saw it!"

"Yeah! The big man made it happen!"

"He can make demons!"

"Enough! There are no demons!"

"But we saw it!"

"And where did this demon go?"

"It went underground into the sand."

"A child's story."

And then all the men laughed at the supposed children's stupidity. They were waved away and they scurried off to the back of the restaurant where Bookman and Lavi were seated to go and bother the women servers congregated by the kitchen. Out of the eyes of the men on the opposite side of the establishment, Bookman got the children's attention by waving them over. The children came over a little cautiously, as was ingrained in their young minds to do when approached or beckoned by strangers.

"I couldn't help but to overhear your story," Bookman said, as kindly as possible, drawing on a persona of the kind, caring older man.

"We're not supposed to talk about it," the older of the two said, looking down at the floor.

"Even to someone who believes you?" Bookman asked and they looked shocked that an adult would believe them.

Casting a quick glance over at their parents, they snuck into the booth. The younger of the two looked over at Lavi who he had sat next to and gave Bookman a worried look.

"Is he okay?" he asked, poking Lavi in the arm.

In response, Lavi moved further away from the offensive movement closer to the wall, not looking up, keeping his head and face completely obscured under his cloak hood.

"He will be fine," Bookman said, pouring another glass of water for Lavi before pushing it toward him again for him to drink; he did so obediently once again. "Now, what was all this talk about demons?"

"Are you a demon hunter, sir?" the smaller one asked.

"In a sense, you could call me that," Bookman replied.

The two boys looked at each other and nodded, as if they were agreeing on something silently.

"I'm Basheer," said the older one, pointing at himself before indicating the shorter one: "And that's my brother Poya."

"I am Afzal," Bookman answered. "That is my grandson, Zaki."

"And you believe in demons?" asked Basheer.

"Of course. Demons have lived since the dawn of the age of man," Bookman replied.

"Well, we saw something bad the other night," Poya said, his childish face looking pouty instead of worried.

"Oh?" Bookman asked, easily managing his look to be one of curious surprise.

"Mmhmm. We went to the graveyard last night because our neighbor's wife died the other day and we wanted to make sure he was okay," Basheer said.

"We brought flowers and everything. And nuts. A lot of them. But I ate them and felt really bad, so we were late because we had to go get more," Poya added unnecessarily.

"And he was there and really sad so we were gonna talk to him, but there was someone else there," Basheer said, shooting his brother a look.

"Who?" Bookman asked.

"I dunno. I never saw him before. He was a round man with something big on his head, like the jug that mama has at home," Poya replied.

"And what did he do?" Bookman inquired.

"He asked something we couldn't hear and then Farooq—that's our neighbor—he started calling for his wife," Basheer answered. "We thought he was just really sad, but then lightening came out of the sky and made a demon."

Bookman felt his jaw clench. He knew where this was going, as he had run into this same scene more than a few times over the years in his travels. So the Earl of Millennium was still up to his old games.

"And then the demon…" Basheer leaned over the table to whisper the rest to Bookman. "I covered Poya's eyes so he didn't see, but the demon…_ate_ Farooq…everything, even the stuff on the inside and then…it stole his face…"

"Hey! Why don't you ever let me hear anything?" Poya asked, but Basheer ignored him.

"And then the demon left, but it went only a little ways outside of town before going under the sand. I didn't see it come up and I didn't want to go after it…" Basheer said, looking guilty.

"No, what you did was right," Bookman said. "That demon was dangerous and you are lucky to have gotten away."

Basheer looked a little perked up that he had done something right in all of this.

"Is there any way that you could bring me to this grave?" Bookman asked, wanting to know for sure if it was the Earl they were dealing with; if it was him, there would be certain signs.

Basheer and his brother nodded eagerly, probably so glad that someone believed them that they didn't mind going back to that awful scene. But then they turned a little pale.

"We'll meet you around back," they said before scurrying off again.

"I'm sorry. Are my children bothering you?" their waitress asked, setting down a plate of fresh fruit and nuts.

"No, quite the opposite," Bookman answered.

"Entertaining travelers like yourself with their made-up stories, then?" she said, replacing their empty water pitcher with a new one.

"Yes. Very delightful imaginations they have," Bookman answered, and she smiled, complimented before disappearing.

Bookman looked over at Lavi, who hadn't moved since Poya poked him. At least from what he could see, Lavi had finished his second cup of water, which would hopefully combat his dehydration better.

"Have some. It will make you feel better," Bookman said, moving the plate closer to Lavi.

He didn't move right away, but after a few moments Bookman could see that he was shaking his head slowly.

"I'm not lying to you. This will help," said Bookman, indicating the refreshing fruit on the plate.

But Lavi kept shaking his head slowly, even appearing that that was too much for him to keep up with. Instead of moving for the food, Lavi made a weak effort for the water pitcher on the table. The sun must have gotten him worse than Bookman thought as he poured Lavi another glass.

They sat there for a little while longer, but Lavi wouldn't eat and instead drank two more cups of water before Bookman finally gave up on trying to force-feed him. At least Lavi wasn't so bad off that he couldn't walk, but Bookman did have to slow his pace down a few steps to keep from losing him.

"There you are!" said Basheer as he and his brother appeared when they rounded the corner. "Was our mom talking your ear off or something? You took a long time."

"It's probably him. He looks siiiiick," Poya said, pointing at Lavi.

It must have been easy to see what Lavi looked like, as Poya was about his height, but for Bookman and Basheer, who had several more inches on the both of them, all they could see was the light brown fabric thrown over Lavi's body and head.

"We're still going to the graveyard, though, right?" Basheer asked, looking at Bookman.

"Yes," Bookman answered and the boys began to walk ahead of him.

"Well, follow us then. We'll take you there," Basheer said, walking along the dirt path between buildings.

They didn't make it very far, as a bell tolled in a mosque nearby and everyone began to pray in the midday _salah_. After it was through and they were going to continue on their way, Lavi stopped everything when he did not get up from the ground.

"Is he…dead?" Poya asked, looking alarmed at Lavi's unmoving figure.

"Don't joke, Poya," Basheer said, hitting his little brother.

As they engaged in a slapping, pinching fight, Bookman knelt down again to examine his apprentice. Pulling back his hood, a mess of red hair appeared. It was damp with sweat and Bookman could feel that same heat from before practically pouring off Lavi in steady, intense waves.

"We are going to have to make a stop before we go," Bookman said, slipping his arms under Lavi to pick him up.

His old back protested slightly, but Lavi wasn't that heavy once Bookman was standing upright. He couldn't believe that he was having to do this and told himself that it wasn't because he cared, it was because he was obligated.

If that was so, why couldn't he shake the feeling of that worry that kept gnawing in his chest over the feverish and unconscious child in his arms?

**pqpq**

The stop Bookman was referring to was returning to the hotel, where Basheer and Poya stood awkwardly down the hall as he entered their room and laid Lavi down on the couch. It was a little worrisome how limp Lavi was and how hot his forehead felt, but Bookman could not stay with him, as he had investigating to do.

After removing Lavi's cloak, Bookman covered him with a blanket and was just about to get up to leave when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Lavi was looking up at him through one glassy looking green eye, holding on to him weakly.

"…don't…."

"I am not going to remain here to coddle you," Bookman said, managing to free himself quite easily from Lavi's feeble grip. "Go to sleep."

"No…don't leave…"

Bookman could hear the unsaid "me" at the end of that plea, but paid it no mind. He had tried to not consider how young Lavi truly was, as he was mature beyond his years. But now he looked his age and sounded it and it made Bookman feel disappointed. Disappointed, and another emotion that he did not want to register as concern.

"I will be back shortly," Bookman said, moving toward the door again. "Sleep in the meantime."

"You…won't be back…in time…"

Bookman paused by the door to regard Lavi. He was slumped over on his side, his left eye fighting a drooping lid as he was still reaching for the place that Bookman had just been standing.

"Take me…with you…"

Lavi's voice was thick with tiredness, but he still clung to consciousness. And although he wasn't crying, he sounded close to it. Bookman admonished himself for staying by the door so long, knowing that he should have left and not remained, no matter how much he wanted to make sure that Lavi fell back asleep again so he could leave with clean presence of mind.

"…don't…go…"

Exhaustion was winning over his adamancy and Bookman saw the tension lift from his small shoulders; saw his left eye flutter closed, but that look of worry mixed with fear still remained on his face. And it was just as Bookman was leaving, closing the door softly behind him that he heard Lavi utter one last plea:

"…please…I don't want…to die…"

**pqpq**

Basheer and Poya took Bookman down to the graveyard. It was near one of the many mosques in the city, but this one was closer to the outskirts of town, the cemetery looking over the miles and miles of desert that surrounded Qandahar.

"That's it over there," Basheer said, pointing at a grave.

He and his brother stood rooted to the spot as if they did not want to near it. That was understandable, though, and Bookman neared the place alone. The ground beside the grave was raw and black, as if a huge amount of energy or power had surged into that spot. Kneeling down on the ground, Bookman brushed his fingertips against the charred earth. The sulfur was thick. There had definitely been demon activity in this place. Now, it was only about finding the signature.

Like all artists, the Earl of Millennium signed his work. But unlike most artists, he also signed the place in which he made his artwork. It took some searching, but Bookman found five punctures in the ground around the grave.

"Find a stick or a branch," Bookman said to the children, and they ran off to go do as he asked.

A few moments later, a sturdy stick was put into his hand and Bookman began his work. He started at the highest point and drew a line from that hole to the one on his right. Then he drew a line from that puncture to the one on his upper left, then directly across to the point on his right, then back down to the one by his left foot, finally closing it by bringing that line to the starting point.

Bookman now stood inside of a huge pentacle, the center of which was the gravestone. It was the Earl, that was for sure. No doubt about it.

**pqpq**

Bookman walked through the graveyard with Basheer and Poya, only to find nine other graves in the same condition, all with the same pentacle signature.

"How many graveyards are there in Qandahar?" Bookman asked the children, after he had marked out the tenth pentagram that day.

"More than this. Maybe five or six more," Basheer said, counting on his fingers. "Oh, and then there's the one out on the holy site about a kilometer from here."

They didn't have time to go to all of them, but Basheer and Poya took him to the two closest ones, both of which had more evidence of the Earl's presence.

"What does it mean?" Basheer asked, Poya clinging to him, looking somewhat afraid.

The Earl was building an army. But for what purpose and why this place? Could it be there was something in Qandahar he wanted? Or maybe something that he didn't want anyone else to find…?

"Has there been anything strange recently?" Bookman asked, not answering the question.

"Well, a bunch of people have been going missing," Basheer said, although it was obvious from the pentacles that this was true.

From the amount of pentacles that they had found, Bookman looked into the distance as he thought. For so much demonic activity, there had to be a lot of deaths, or else the Earl would be unable to make so many demons in one place.

"But before they went missing," Bookman said, trying to be more specific. "Or during the time of these disappearances, was there anything strange that you can remember going on?"

Basheer and Poya looked at each other as they thought.

"We've been having a lot of rumbles," Poya said.

"Earthquakes," Basheer clarified, upon seeing Bookman's slightly confused face.

"Earthquakes are possible here," Bookman replied. "But how many have you been having?"

"At least three a week, maybe four," Basheer answered with a shrug while Poya began to reenact an earthquake with childish sounds.

"Have they been coming from anywhere in particular?" Bookman asked; the two children looked confused.

"It's an earthquake. They just kind of happen, don't they?" Basheer answered, scratching his head.

Bookman said nothing, as it was obvious the children were too young to be any more of help.

"Oh, but remember when we went to the big mosque to pray with mama and papa last week?" Poya said, tugging on Basheer's sleeve. "Remember there was another rumble but we didn't feel it?"

That got Bookman's interest and Basheer knocked himself on the head as if he had just remembered something important that he forgot.

"That's right! That was the day that everyone said an earthquake shook everything, but everyone who was in the mosque didn't feel anything," Basheer said, crossing his arms. "It was probably Allah protecting us."

Bookman doubted it, but didn't say so. If the Earl was in Qandahar, making an army for something that he wanted…maybe the mosque had something to do with it. Maybe it was the mysterious substance known as Innocence that was attracting them to this city.

"Take me to this mosque."

**pqpq**

The mosque was huge, with beautiful pillars of multi-colored marble and ornate carvings over every archway. There were people worshipping when they entered, so they walked along the walls in order not to disturb them.

"Since the earthquakes started, has anything of interest been brought here?" Bookman asked, looking around as they walked.

The children looked like they were in deep thought as they walked around the mosque. Once, twice, and there was nothing.

"No, I don't think so," Basheer finally said.

Bookman crossed his arms and nodded. He had reached a dead end, although he knew that everything now had something to do with this mosque. He also knew it would have to be a foreign object that had been brought into the temple, which was why it was protecting this site, but maybe also the reason for all the phenomena around it. If it was Innocence, then it was possible that it was beginning to get out of control in reaction to the Earl's presence, which would explain the tremors that Qandahar was feeling…

Suddenly, the peaceful atmosphere inside of the mosque turned terrifying as screams began to pierce the air. Rushing over to the nearest open archway, they could see what had caused this.

The sky that had been reaching dusk was suddenly red with flames and the buildings surrounding the mosque were in various states of collapse. People were running by, trying to escape the destruction. Dark shapes in the sky were firing shots down at the ground, causing more damage and chaos.

"Those are the demons we saw!" Basheer said, pointing at them.

They were definitely akuma and the sheer about of them was startling. Bookman had a sinking feeling that they were on a murdering spree and that the thriving city of Qandahar would be no more after this.

"Do you have somewhere to hide?" Bookman asked the children.

If this mosque had what they wanted, it would be no time before it was destroyed or invaded.

"There's a shelter underneath the lunch hall," Basheer said.

"Take your brother and go," Bookman instructed, and Basheer nodded, pulling Poya by the arm out the exit.

"Be careful!" they shouted as they disappeared into the crumbling city.

He should have been the one saying that to them. But Bookman had to keep on task and find out exactly what was drawing the akuma to Qandahar. Was it really this mosque? Just as he was about to walk into the main antechamber, Bookman stopped short in sudden, horrifying realization: Lavi was back at the hotel, lying helpless and alone on the couch three floors up from the ground. Bookman felt something rush over him, almost making him physically sick.

"_Don't go…please…I don't want…to die…_"

His mission neglected, Bookman fled from the sacred site and toward the place where his apprentice had begged him not to leave.

**pqpq**

It was just like the dream with the houses burning and the sky that looked like it was on fire, a fierce collage of reds and oranges. The ashes were thick and heavy, making it difficult to breathe and the screams were louder than before, resonating loud and clear in the decimated place.

And just like in the dream, Bookman knew his way. He wound his way through the burning and collapsed structures, going in the direction he knew was the right way. That voice that had whispered mysterious riddles in his ear late at night was back, echoing inside of his own head.

_**Hurry, hurry.**_

_**Number forty-eight.**_

_**As forty-nine has not much**_

_**Time left to wait.**_

Bookman found the hotel in a collapsed pile of timber and roofing and stone. Some of it was on fire, but not all, which was a good thing. That gave Bookman the thought that maybe Lavi had somehow managed to survive the destruction, if he was not crushed to death, at least he would not be burned. There wasn't much he could do in this situation, except begin to look, and he did. He began sifting through the debris searching for some indicator that would let him know if Lavi was still alive or not.

_**Hurry, hurry,**_

_**Don't be meek.**_

_**Surrender now and you will never find**_

_**What you seek.**_

As he moved rock and wood, Bookman was disconcerted to find that his hands began to bleed just like in the dream. He would have thought it made him stop, but he pressed on, still looking, looking, moving faster because what if Lavi was at the bottom waiting for him to pull him out…? Then began a verse he had never heard before, soft in his ear, like a woman speaking to her demon lover…

_**Hurry, hurry.**_

_**If forty-eight**_

_**Comes to late…**_

And just below that seductive voice, Lavi's came to him, making Bookman redouble his efforts as he dug. Deeper, deeper…

"…_you won't be back…in time…"_

At last! He came across a small hand jutting out from the rubble. An image from his dream resurfaced, and he could clearly see the first two fingers and wrist broken in his mind, just as he was seeing it now. More shifting so now the elbow was visible and then a shoulder…

_**Then forty-nine**_

_**Will become just another line…**_

"…_please…I don't want…to die…"_

…_**Of ink.**_

**pqpq**

Whoaaaaa! This is like…35 pages long! Sweet! Hopefully that makes up for my long absence? I hope so….

Because I haven't written something creepy/psychic in a while, I decided to throw a little bit of it into this story, just to creep myself out. I think I did a pretty good job, but that's just me being arrogant! The voice and the dream will be explained in the next chapter, as will the akuma-ness and everything. But isn't everyone happy we're moving a step closer to the plot? And isn't everyone happy that I got to make Lavi into a wounded little puppy and because of that, Bookman got to be all human for about five seconds! Yaaaay!

I think I should lay off the cough medicine…it makes me funny 0o

Name Meanings plus cultural stuff:

Basheer – "One who brings good news" which I thought to be slightly ironic, because he's the kid who brings the news of the demon attacks.

Poya – "Curious". I just found the name to be adorable, like the kid I imagined.

Afzal – "Better; someone on a higher level" because Bookman likes to compliment himself.

Zaki – "Intelligent". It's 'holy crap, Bookman is giving someone a compliment' time!

Salah: "ritual prayer" one of the five pillars of Islam. Required to pray five times a day, no matter where you are; even if you happen to be having sex (I'm being serious).

Mosque: Where you go to worship Islam. They are very pretty to look at, so I recommend going and looking a picture or two up if you have the time.

**Next Time:** Oh noes! What's going to happen now? So much for building such suspense only to know that Lavi's going to live no matter what. But the mysteries are revealed, Bookman exercises human kindness to his wounded apprentice, and then their journey will begin again. But to where? And what more adventures await them?

Hopefully I will give you a speedy update! I'm trying hard, but as it gets closer to graduation, more and more stuff keeps popping up. I'll do my best, though, to get something up for you all soon! Thanks for being patient!

Dhampir72


	19. Abandoning History

Author's Note: Thanks so much for over 200 reviews! That makes me feel very accomplished! I'm glad you all like it so much!

**Warning**: This has been proofread in pieces. If it sounds funny in some places, I'm sorry about that. I'm allotted two hours on the computer a day, so I had to write and proofread in segments. Sorry about this in advance; please enjoy it anyway!

**pqpq**

There are records of a certain phenomena that happen upon the first rush of adrenaline as it rushes through a person's system. Not only does it give the person strength ordinarily not possessed, but also a strange sense of time and space. There is probably some medical explanation for it, like the fact that the blood rushes so quickly that the brain just can't process that fast, causing the person to feel as though everything were moving in slow motion.

That's what Bookman felt like at that moment, pulling pieces of debris—that he would ordinarily be unable to lift—off his buried apprentice. Even the fiery sky and the buildings collapsing around him and the akuma attacking and his bleeding hands did not stop Bookman's efforts.

Normally, Bookman would have found his behavior to be illogical and he would have berated himself for acting in such a manner. But at that moment he couldn't think rationally. With the reality of the dream he had experienced happening before him and the sight of Lavi's too-small, broken wrist jutting out lifelessly from the rubble, Bookman was driven by something that transcended the rules that had been taught and had followed for so many years.

Finally he uncovered Lavi's upper body from beneath a flat plank of splintered timber, but he could not breathe a sigh of relief. In fact, it was like he couldn't breathe at all.

"…_don't go…please…I don't want…to die…_" Lavi's voice pleaded in a weak whisper in his memory, so vivid because of the attention to detail a Bookman must possess.

That made the scene before him even more troubling to him, as he looked down at the battered body of his apprentice. Lavi was lying in a half-fetal position on his right side, looking smaller than ever, covered in dirt and blood that soaked his hair and clothes. His eye was closed, his face pale, and for a moment of silent stillness, Bookman believed him to be dead.

But there was a slight rise and fall to Lavi's chest and a brief fluttering of his lashes that pulled Bookman out of his trance. Going to kneel beside him, Bookman checked Lavi over for any serious injuries that would prevent him from being moved. As far as he could tell, Lavi's neck wasn't broken and his spine seemed to be in fairing condition, which was more than Bookman could say for his ribs. Bookman felt a little bit of relief, knowing now that he wouldn't paralyze Lavi by moving him to safety, as the unsteady debris around them were as dangerous as the akuma that had flown by—thankfully— without detecting them. Small favors.

Bookman then dealt with the bleeding, which he found to be the cause of a rather nasty-looking head wound, most likely the result of falling when the building collapsed. After bandaging Lavi's head to staunch the bleeding as best he could, Bookman splinted his broken wrist using two planks of wood that didn't have extremely splintered edges. After tying off the splint with strips of fabric from the tattered blanket lying under Lavi, Bookman attempted to pick him up, worried about the unstable ruins they now occupied. But he stopped when he heard Lavi utter a small whimper of pain at the sudden movement.

As gently as he could, Bookman released his hold on Lavi, keeping him slightly propped up against his knee as he wrapped his apprentice in the cloak around his shoulders. He hoped that this would keep Lavi's injuries from being jostled too much as Bookman got the two of them to a safer location.

This time, Lavi made no sound when Bookman lifted him from the ground and proceeded to leave. He knew that he should have stayed and searched through the rubble for their traveling packs, especially his, as it carried all of Bookman's medical supplies. Medical supplies that Lavi would surely be needing. But getting out of there was more important than even medicine, so Bookman looked for a safe opportunity to make a run for it. There weren't any akuma that he could see, but Bookman still hurried out into what had once been a crowded street. Ducking in between whatever buildings still remained upright, Bookman hurried toward the only place he knew that offered shelter.

The lunch hall was still standing, although barely. Its sturdy stone walls were probably the only reason it remained the way it was. Rushing inside, Bookman spotted a wooden hatch on the floor and knocked it rapidly with his foot, wondering if the people down below would allow him inside.

Thankfully, someone heard him and pushed open the hatch, indicating Bookman to get inside, which he did with haste. Darkness greeted him and then finally a dim yellow light of oil lanterns. When his eyes adjusted, Bookman found that they were in an underground storage house crammed with people who were seeking shelter from the atrocities outside. They were all in various degrees of injury, holding dishtowels and torn clothing to their wounds or cradling hurt appendages.

Out of the crowd emerged two smaller shapes that Bookman identified as Basheer and Poya. Even in the darkened light, Bookman could see that their eyes were wide with fear. He sidestepped them without a word, moving to a corner that was occupied by a flat, square chest that most likely held dishware. Bookman gently laid Lavi down upon it, feeling a slight stitch form in his brow when his young apprentice neither stirred nor made a sound.

"Is he…okay…?" asked Basheer from Bookman's elbow.

Bookman did not answer, moving his hands to support Lavi's neck, feeling for his pulse again to make sure that it was still there. It was easy to think that it wasn't because of the way Lavi wasn't moving and how unresponsive he was. But he was still alive, although for how long, Bookman wasn't sure. Still not knowing the extent of the damage, Bookman couldn't give an accurate outcome to the situation.

His head wound was still bleeding; Bookman could feel the warmth soaking through onto his own torn-up hands. In any other case, he would consider it unsanitary, but at that moment, Bookman was only worried about keeping his apprentice alive long enough until he was able to properly treat him.

"Brother…why isn't he moving?" came Poya's small voice from behind him; out of the corner of his eye, Bookman could see that the smaller boy was pulling on Basheer's sleeve as he asked.

"You, let me borrow your sash," Bookman said, looking at Basheer.

The child promptly took off his belt sash and handed it to Bookman, who folded it up into a roughly-shaped square. Very carefully, he applied it to the bleeding gash on the back of Lavi's head.

"Now you," Bookman said, looking at Poya, "hold this here and don't move."

Poya came forward a little skittishly, but eventually did as Bookman asked.

"Put pressure on it to stop the bleeding," he instructed as he stood up.

Leaning over, Bookman lifted Lavi's left eyelid and watched the pupil for a moment. From what he could tell with the bad lighting and his apprentice's pale, clammy forehead, Lavi might have been going into shock. He needed medical help badly. Maybe more help than Bookman could give him.

"Go and find a blanket," he said to Basheer, who returned with his mother carrying a few tablecloths.

"This is all we have," she said, offering him the sheets of cotton.

"I thank you," Bookman replied, taking them from her.

He had to fold them a few times, his bleeding hands leaving red smears on the tan fabric, but they served their purpose and Bookman figured that two of them would be enough to keep Lavi warm until he came back.

"Please watch over him until I return," Bookman said.

"You're leaving?" Basheer and Poya's mother asked him, her eyes looking troubled.

"I must. I have medical supplies, but they were lost in a building collapse," Bookman said before looking over at Lavi, who was still lying motionless on the chest. "If my grandson does not receive medical treatment very soon, he will die."

It was so easy to sound detached that Bookman almost fooled himself. _Almost_ being the key word. The woman nodded, understanding, knowing that she would do the same thing for her own children, no doubt. Some of the other people in the room looked at him in the same way.

"So are you a doctor?" asked one of them: a strong looking man with dark facial hair and rather sunken cheeks.

He was cradling a little girl to his chest that appeared to be no older and in no better shape than Lavi. Only she had burns that Lavi did not and took them in unconscious silence. Her arm appeared to be the worst, from what Bookman could see through the hastily wrapped bandages.

"No I am not," Bookman answered, nonetheless moving closer to inspect the girl. "Take these bandages off: they're dirty and will get her wound infected. And you must keep something cool on this or else the burn will get worse. Also, make her drink some water, as burns cause dehydration quickly."

Bookman stood up and made for the stairs to go back up to the surface as a few of the women went to fetch some water.

"Even if you're not a doctor…can you help her?" asked the man, making Bookman stop to regard him.

He looked at the little girl in the man's arms and then over at Lavi being cared for by Basheer and Poya. Normally, Bookman would have left a casualty to die, as that was the way it should be. Don't interfere, don't get involved: neither help nor hinder. But Bookman factually knew he couldn't treat only Lavi, lest be forced out of the underground safe house. He didn't want to admit that he truly couldn't stand seeing children suffer. That was one of his faults, he supposed.

"I may have some burn salve that will help," Bookman replied. "I will do what I can."

And with that, he left.

**pqpq**

Outside was a scene that Bookman had acquainted himself with many times, but mostly as the aftermath of war. This time, it was a war that was fought on one side against a weaker species. It was a massacre. Bookman had seen a few of those in his lifetime too, but never like this. There were no bodies or blood, as the records showed that akuma turned people literally into dust when they killed. So not only was the place destroyed, but it was desolate and empty, devoid of the human life and prosperity that had been there merely moments before it seemed.

_**Ashes to ashes**_

_**Dust to dust**_

_**Did one ever think**_

_**It would hurt this much?**_

The voice was back, though weak, as if it was dying along with the city. He didn't have time to dwell on it or wonder why he was hearing this speaker, focusing more on the fact that he had not only one, but two children waiting for him to return. "_…please…I don't want…to die…_"

Maybe Bookman was feeling what he shouldn't in this situation: guilt. He kept thinking that maybe he shouldn't have left Lavi the first place. But he pushed that aside. Perhaps he was getting too soft, thinking too much and _remembering _too much. Memories of a little boy growing up with no kindness except from the few praises received from the shadowed silhouette of a former master…

He was running on automatic, it seemed, as Bookman found himself suddenly at the ruins of the hotel, once again searching through the debris. He was trying not to think about the children or his master or the past, present, and future. But most of all: that mysterious voice that had predicted everything that had happened. Just exactly what _was_ it? _Who _was it? Could the pronoun "who" be properly used in this case?

_**I speak in riddles**_

_**I live in rhyme**_

_**And forty-nine, my friend,**_

_**Is running out of time.**_

Bookman grit his teeth. He was a man of facts. They were certain, infallible, _explainable_. This wasn't. And he didn't like things that couldn't be explained by the principle laws of nature and the five senses.

Within the demolished building, Bookman found the spot where he had discovered Lavi and began searching there. He tried to ignore the bloodstain where his apprentice had fallen, turning his back to it while he looked. Out of the rubble, he found Lavi's bag, but his own remained elusive.

_**My life ticks away**_

_**And his does too**_

_**Forty-nine is waiting**_

_**What will forty-eight do?**_

Bookman redoubled his efforts to find his belongings, ignoring the steady sting and painful burning in his wounded hands. The voice, no matter what it was, had been true up until this point. He would have ignored it if not for this fact, and knowing that Lavi was in bad condition when he left…Once again, Bookman had to control himself, not knowing where his head was at. Here he was worrying over Lavi as if he _cared_ for the boy. It should not be, even between a master and his apprentice. Emotions had to be kept separate or else judgment was clouded and then recording was biased…

_**Will you leave him to ashes**_

_**And to die in despair?**_

_**Why are you rushing**_

_**If you don't care?**_

With his own thoughts of remaining impartial in his mind brushing continuously with the voice questioning his values, Bookman hurried his already hasty searching. Upon finding and securing his luggage, Bookman put Lavi's bag inside of his before shrugging it on to his shoulders. As he was stepping carefully out of the remains of the hotel, Bookman spotted akuma in the sky and ducked down to safety where he wouldn't be seen.

_**I told him to wake**_

_**From slumber and sleep**_

_**Now he's to you**_

_**To heal and to keep.**_

The voice sounded tired, almost like a sigh; like a weary mother giving her last advice to her children before dying. There was a ringing sadness to it, but also…acceptance as the voice got fainter and fainter and as Bookman watched the akuma begin to convene, moving in one certain direction. From what he could remember of the layout of the city, they were headed toward…

"The mosque…" he said aloud, to no one; or maybe to _someone_.

_**What is it like? **_

"_**To not have a heart"?**_

_**Doesn't it hurt?**_

_**Doesn't it smart?**_

Bookman hadn't realized he was moving until that voice was speaking to him again. Instead of heading in the direction of the lunch hall and the safety of the underground hatch and to where Lavi and a burned little girl were waiting, Bookman was going in the direction of the mosque, following the akuma. Following them toward history…

But why was a too-small, too-pale redheaded boy filling his thoughts? And a weak voice asking him to stay, the only instance of childish selfishness he had ever displayed?

_**But you have one, you know**_

_**It's just asleep**_

_**A Heart myself**_

_**I can hear it beat**_

The mosque was in sight, as were the akuma advancing upon it. Gripping the strap of his pack tighter, Bookman had to make his choice: either to watch and record history or allow his apprentice to _become_ history. And he did the one thing that the forty-seven Bookmen before him surely would have beaten him for, and turned away from history in the making to keep someone from falling victim to that cruel darkness.

_**I can feel my life **_

_**Ticking away**_

_**So I have nothing more**_

_**I want to say**_

_**Except that this**_

_**Is my last day.**_

The voice breathed quietly in that accepting sort of way, not admonishing Bookman for turning away. There was as strange sort of understanding that took place and the pieces all fell together quite nicely when this happened. Bookman realized that the voice he was hearing was the sound of the substance known as Innocence speaking to him. It was not unheard of, as there were records of people speaking to Innocence and believing it to be the Voice of God; becoming Exorcists. How strange that a product of the one they refer to as "God" would speak to a person such as him: a person a part of the clan that turned their backs on faith and humanity.

_**And my Heart weeps**_

_**Because the World will die**_

_**The human race will**_

_**End with a sigh.**_

The sound of artillery broke out as the akuma unleashed a devastating attack on the mosque. There was nothing Bookman could do except keep moving forward on his own path. And although he did not believe in the one known as "God", Bookman felt a strange twinge in his chest that he just turned his back on something much larger than himself.

_**Doesn't that make you**_

_**Want to cry?**_

Another sound broke out over the sound of machine gun fire. The only way to describe it was that it was a song that had no words and no music, but all the emotion that a song can pour into a person. And it poured in so quickly, like water into a cup that was too small. Bookman felt like the sadness was physically crushing him and was rooted to the spot.

It was the sound of a civilization being destroyed, a child witnessing their parents being murdered, the raging scream of a lover over the death of their beloved, a garden being ensnared by flames, a rabbit being tortured by the cruel hands of men, the mythical phoenix's lament.

All of that mixed together into a song of mourning and despair so intense that it actually appeared to the naked eye. It formed into a vibrant green; streaks that shot out into the smoky sky. A series of explosions signified the destruction of the akuma among the dark clouds as the song reached a trembling climax.

And once they disappeared, the light faded and died. The song was no more and the voice was gone as well. Bookman wondered if that meant the Innocence was destroyed in the process, but didn't have time to investigate.

Just as he pulled himself to his feet and began off in the direction of the lunch hall, Bookman caught the glimpse of a tall figure walking through the dust toward the mosque. All he saw was the flicker of a gold cross on a black and goldenrod coat and then nothing more.

**pqpq**

When Bookman returned to the lunch hall, there were a few people above ground and the hatch was propped open, everyone believing the worst to be over. They nodded at his arrival but said nothing as he made his way down the stairs. Poya was immediately in front of him, trying to pull Bookman by his torn sleeves over to where Lavi was.

"He keeps on bleeding," Poya said, his face rather white. "We can't make it stop."

Basheer had taken Poya's place, sitting on the chest a little ways above Lavi's head, holding the cloth to the wound. Bookman didn't let Poya's words bother him; head injuries bled profusely, that was nothing to worry about.

"Has he woken up at all?" Bookman asked, dropping his pack next to the chest as he leaned over to lift Lavi's eyelid again; still an unresponsive pupil.

"Once, but only for a minute," Basheer replied, watching him. "He asked where you were."

Bookman didn't let that bother him either, not letting the mental image of Lavi waking up alone, confused, and hurt, asking for him, enter his mind. It irked him more than he would admit, especially after everything he had just witnessed.

"All right. I have a job for you two," Bookman said.

He had the two of them take a few of the spare tablecloths and begin ripping them into long strips for bandages. With some of their first strips, Bookman wrapped up his hands so he didn't bleed all over his supplies and patients. He had to have Basheer tie them off for him so they stayed on his hands, then he set to work.

From his medical supplies, Bookman produced a burn salve that he gave to the man to treat his daughter. Once he did that, Bookman instructed him to wrap up the limb as gently as possible, but not loosely, as that would be pointless. He made it clear that the wound had to be kept clean and the bandages changed regularly or else she would succumb to an infection.

All the while giving these instructions, Bookman worked on Lavi. It was only an hour or so later that he was finished. He ended up stitching the wound on the back of Lavi's head, along with a laceration he had overlooked on his right arm. After that he went about better administering aid to Lavi's broken left wrist, glad that he was fortunate enough to be unconscious when Bookman had to reset the bone. From there, Bookman had to inspect the damage done to Lavi's torso, tightly binding his broken ribs so they could heal properly, but not too tightly to keep him from breathing. The only seemingly good thing that Bookman could see was that Lavi's legs were undamaged.

Once through, he wrapped Lavi's shivering body up in the tablecloths again before searching through his apprentice's bag (it must have been shock resistant, as everything inside was neat and the glass bottle of Elixir from Tarak had remained in tact) to drape his traveling blanket over him as well.

Something heavy fell out of the blanket and to the ground with a dull _thunk_! Bookman looked at it and picked it up. It was Lavi's journal. Leaning against the wall in a sitting position beside the chest, Bookman held it in his lap and stared at the leather book. Everyone in the room was quiet, still in various degrees of exhaustion or shock. No one was paying him much mind, and even Basheer and Poya had curled up under the stairs to sleep.

Touching the book, he wondered if he should open it. Lavi had been scribbling away furiously in it earlier that day. Bookman figured it wouldn't hurt and Lavi wouldn't know so it didn't matter.

It was a journal that the pages could be taken out of and more put in, but Lavi hadn't written that much that he needed more paper. There was a significant amount of writing, though, Bookman observed as he breezed through. The beginning entries were a little sloppy and in cramped handwriting, a mix of Nepali and English all rolled into one mess of letters and characters. But as the entries went on, it seemed that Lavi finally got a little better at record keeping and his handwriting got progressively neater and all in English.

_I want to write like Tarak because he has nice script. But I'm not sure how he always does those loopy letters all the time. Enoch and Dakshina do it too, so it must be something that they all learned. I've been trying, but all my letters look deflated and rather stupid. Maybe I'll just write like Nirav. He kind of writes on a slant, so it looks funny. But he's left-handed like me, so maybe I'd be able to do his handwriting better. Because maybe left-handed people can't make loopy letters?_

It must have been the events of the day and the tiredness weighing on Bookman's mind that made him quirk a smile somewhat. Who knew Lavi worried about such trivial things as handwriting?

As the entries progressed, Bookman could see events passing by his eyes as he flipped the pages. Words like "death" and "the river" and even "the rabbit" were common themes in these entries. The more recent entries all had Tarak in them:

_Tarak told me that I'm weird because I don't do stuff like he does. Just because I'm not tall and stupid doesn't mean anything. But he kept telling me that wasn't what he meant, so I just called him an idiot because he wasn't making sense. It was kind of like that night he kept talking about "tickling" whatever that is. He started talking about things like "laughing" and "smiling" and it's only because I've read books that I know what he's talking about. He does it all the time, so I tried doing it too (not in public, of course) but I look really dumb doing it, so I just decided that I wouldn't anymore. If I'm weird then I'm weird, but at least I'm not even uglier than I already am._

A few pages later:

_Tarak and Kataryna asked me to come live with them today. That was nice of them, but I said no. They'd probably be their happy, oblivious selves without me there. Besides, calling them "mom" and "dad" would be weird, considering the fact that I believe myself to be more mature than the both of them combined. Maybe age makes you ridiculous. But maybe you grow out of it, because Bookman-sama isn't ridiculous at all (Except for the fact he kind of looks like a panda—_

Bookman shook his head, wondering why everyone associated him with such an animal.

_--but Nirav once told me that the kohl is something ceremonial, so it doesn't really matter). But anyway, I didn't go. I felt sad for a while, because it seemed like they really wanted me, but they probably didn't, so I got over it fast. I mean, no one ever wanted me before, so why start now?_

Flipping forward some more:

_I've been having weird dreams lately. Not those kind that make you scared, but the ones that wake you up and you can't go back to sleep no matter what. Maybe I am scared, but it doesn't feel like that. It's something else. I feel really tired because I keep waking up in the middle of the night. I wish I could at least remember what I was dreaming, so at least I could think about it. If I could analyze it and decode it, then maybe I wouldn't have it anymore and be able to sleep._

One of the most recent ones was the most striking. It was a hurried, scribbled mess of ink, somewhat smeared, as if it had been written quickly:

_I had a dream. It's the same one that I've been dreaming for weeks now. The one where the sky turns black, then red and the four corners of the Earth collapse. There is no floor or ceiling, because the inside turns to outside and gravity does not exist for a span of time I cannot identify. _

_Loud sounds are everywhere, like gunfire, only worse, almost as if something heavy is falling from the sky at an accelerated rate. Times one thousand, the objects fall and turn up the inside out, casting the darkness into red light._

_When gravity finally catches up with time, it is only then that I can identify the up from the down, and the fact that I am falling. Pieces of brokenness fall with me, remnants of a human world that crumbles into the dark. _

_Then, I can hear the screaming, the sound of the world breaking around me. I hit something hard and pain sears through me like something indescribable. The world exists again, only in ruins around me, piling high into the red sky that threatens to be overtaken by black diseased clouds._

_A baby is crying somewhere; a woman screaming. After a while her voice is lost and the baby is silenced. It feels like I'm the only one breathing, pinned to the Earth by something heavier than heavy, like gravity is making up for lost time and pressing down harder than ever. Is it possible to sink even further after one has hit the ground?_

_The sky is still red, but at least those black clouds that shot hate from up there have dissipated. It's heavier now and I'm definitely sinking into something darker where nothing will be able to reach me. Sinking so fast that I cannot see the sky anymore. _

_Just as it feels like the remaining part of the world is about to swallow me in darkness, there is a hand in my hair, gentle, almost like I presume a mother would touch her child in comfort from a terrible dream. Then comes the voice, like a soft whispered caress of something warm and safe:_

_**Wake up, number forty-nine.**_

_And I did. _

_But I don't think I _will_. _

Bookman gripped the journal rather tightly. Even though the entry was messy, in a strangely used present tense, Bookman could understand it. Lavi had dreamed about what would happen to him. He had heard the same voice that Bookman had. That had to mean something, didn't it?

The sound of that Innocence calling them, trying to warn them…urging Bookman to hurry to Lavi lest losing him…

No, he told himself. It meant nothing. And the only reason that Bookman had rushed back to retrieve his medical supplies was to save the life of his apprentice. _Not_ Lavi himself, the person, the _child_ that he wouldn't think about calling for him so afraid and alone…

_**What is it like?**_

"_**To not have a heart"?**_

Bookman closed the journal and set it back inside of Lavi's bag, ignoring the question that rang inside of his mind like an echo.

"_Empty_."

**pqpq**

It was not a restful night and morning came all together unfairly too early. Bookman hadn't slept at all, too busy staying up with Lavi when he spiked a fever and had to be attended to constantly. At one point, he was sure that Lavi would not make it through the rest of the night, but Bookman had finally gotten his body temperature to lower to its best: thirty-eight degrees.

Although Bookman knew he would be in a lot of pain when he awoke, Lavi was doing considerably better. However, the burned little girl wasn't. She had gone into severe shock when the burns began to swell and blister. Nothing they could do for her eased her discomfort, even the pain-relievers that Bookman had made himself. Sometime in the small hours of the morning, she passed, leaving her terribly grieving father behind.

Poya and Basheer looked shocked and sat in mute silence as the man was led away, cradling his daughter's lifeless body to his chest.

"What's going to happen now?" they kept asking, and no one could answer them.

Sometime towards the afternoon, a few men appeared and informed them that the city was evacuating and that trains were coming to bring everyone to Qalat. Apparently it was an order by someone that the men referred bitterly to as the Black Priest.

Many were refusing to leave their homes, no matter what state of dilapidation they may be in. Mostly it was because they had to cross over a provincial line and enter Zabol, which seemed to be a sore spot for many in the room. Bookman chalked it up to a neighborly rivalry of trade or religion and did not pursue the subject any further.

The trains were being rerouted from Chaman, which was located on the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, and would be coming through every few hours to pick up refugees. The first one had left two hours before and another was expected soon, so those who wanted to go were informed of this and told to go to the station to await their train.

Eyes watched Bookman's back as he packed up a few things to get ready to go. Poya and Basheer looked almost betrayed.

"You're leaving?" they asked and Bookman nodded.

It was imperative that they kept moving on. Although it was unlikely the city would be attacked again, it was still dangerous. And even though Lavi shouldn't be moved too much in his condition, Bookman knew that finding a safer place to recover would benefit the both of them.

"We must keep going," Bookman answered, putting his medicine case at the top of his bag in case he needed it at a moment's notice.

They just stared and didn't say anything more. Their mother and father were some of the people that remained adamant about not leaving the city. Trying to help, they went and refilled Bookman's water canteens, which he gratefully took and tied them securely to his pack.

When everything was done, Bookman shouldered his bag. The part he was dreading was having to move Lavi again. As sick as it sounded, a pained whimper or cry would have made Bookman feel better than being met with that heavy silence from his apprentice's limp body.

"_Motehshakeram_ (1) for the shelter," Bookman said with a small, but respectful bow.

They accepted his thanks with grim faces, most likely worrying about their futures rather than the present happenings. Bookman took no offense and left via the stairs leading up to the world above. He was about half-way down the road when he heard two voices calling out to him:

"_Khoda hafaz_ (2)!" they said, and Bookman turned around to see Basheer and Poya waving at him from atop of a cluster of debris.

Bookman did not reply verbally, but just gave them a nod before continuing on his way. They would probably not survive the next year. But he didn't think about that. They were behind him now.

They were merely history.

**pqpq**

Sorry about this, but this chapter is sort of one of those half-ass updates…I thought that this chapter was going to rock because there would be a lot of pain and blood. But I was wrong, I think, because it just doesn't sit well with me. Bookman is being way too nice for his own damned good, and that has got to change very soon or else I might freak out!

Anyway, as I was saying. I've got a lot of stuff coming up, and this was all I could get done. That and I don't want to start a new plot and leave you hanging (although in Lavi's state right now, it is sort of a cliff hanger….) until I can update again. Presumably, I don't think I can update for another few weeks, but we'll see if I can mange to procrastinate any more than I already do!

Stuff you might want to know:

Thirty-eight degrees (Celsius) is about 101 degrees Fahrenheit.

_Motehshakeram_ – "thank you very much" in Farsi

_Khoda hafaz_ –"goodbye" in Farsi

**Next Time**: As Lavi struggles to heal from his injuries, he and Bookman enter into a strange group that Bookman seems to have strange ties with.

Dhampir72


	20. Morals vs Ethics

Author's Note: Thanks for all the nice reviews! Sorry about the delay (see lengthy excuse at the end of this chapter)! Enjoy!

**pqpq**

The journey from Qandahar was a hard one. Not only was Bookman as exhausted as the rest of the blank-eyed passengers riding in the cramped cars along with him, but the constant rocking motion over the uneven lengths of tracks had put Lavi into a poor state of health. It became so bad that they had to stop in Qalat with the other refugees instead of continuing on toward Kabul. Since there was nowhere to stay, Bookman and Lavi took up residence in a drafty stable near the station along with several others who were just as much without shelter as the rest of them.

Bookman feared that he had made the wrong decision when the stable proved to be less than adequate housing and the cold night air that seeped in through every crack and cranny did nothing to help Lavi's feverish state. The train had continuously jostled Lavi's injuries, spiking the fever in response to the pain and the weather combined with the situation was keeping Bookman's apprentice in a dangerous state of confused delirium.

"…am I…dead…?" he asked, almost lucidly if it had not been for the glazed look of his left eye.

"No, you are not. Be quiet now," Bookman replied.

"…it wouldn't hurt…so much…if I was dead…right…?" Lavi inquired, his voice strangely light despite the subject.

"Don't complain. You will be all right," was Bookman's answer.

"…I'm…sorry…" he said, truly looking it with such a flushed countenance.

"Don't act so apologetic either," said Bookman, not letting his apprentice's pathetic appearance affect him.

"…I'm…not…" was Lavi's breathy reply, his half-opened eye fluttering to a tired close.

It didn't help that afterwards Lavi kept panting from under the weight of the fever, only serving to put a strain on his injured lungs which made his temperature climb steadily higher. Bookman could do nothing and his pain-killing supplements would only end up hurting rather than helping, as the patient had to have eaten something lest suffer side effects.

He spent another practically sleepless night looking over Lavi, who spent the evening in a fitful slumber. When the chills overtook his apprentice's small body, Bookman had no choice but to take Lavi into his arms in an attempt to keep him warm. He ended up propped up in a strange position until dawn, doing his best to support Lavi's injured body without hurting him further. That uncomfortable pose plus Lavi's sporadic attempts at regaining consciousness led to no sleep, which accounted for Bookman's exhausted and aching state the next morning. He was way too old for this sort of thing.

After a meager breakfast (which Bookman couldn't get Lavi to touch, or even look at for that matter) and a quick clean up of bandages and any remaining blood or dirt from the day prior, they left Qalat behind. Bookman had secured a cabin on a train headed to the capital and they were shipped out before the sun had been in the sky more than a few hours. He considered them fortunate, as the others that had been brought from Qandahar had and could afford nothing, so they were left to merely wander the strange city with drawn, hopeless faces. Some prayed for aid that Bookman knew would not come, especially from God.

Another horrifyingly long and uncomfortable train ride lasted almost two days, during which there were no stops in between and Bookman feared that Lavi would not make it to Kabul. Through some unknown means, his apprentice managed to live (although barely) to the capital where Bookman found them rented lodging in a shabby, yet clean dwelling. It overlooked a narrow street that ran in between the building they occupied and another across from them. The two structures leaned in toward each other at a lazy angle, the lines of drying laundry strung between them setting a comfortable atmosphere. It was quiet, too, for the most part, and even the children who ran up and down the alleyway below weren't distracting.

After a day of resting, Bookman managed to find a doctor nearby who would cast Lavi's broken left wrist for little compensation. He was a young man who was new to the practice, but had studied at university for a good many years. Bookman could tell that he knew what he was doing and let him treat his apprentice with no complaint. Before he did anything, the doctor put Lavi under with a few deep breaths of ether and then reset the bone that had apparently slipped out of place again during their rough travels. After that, Lavi's left wrist was set in a lightweight plaster that would ensure it would heal correctly and make sure that there was little more pain involved in moving it too much.

Maybe that was just what was needed, as Lavi was able to stay conscious for longer intervals after that and wasn't as lethargic as he was prior to having his arm cast. Although when he was awake, Lavi didn't say very much and watched Bookman a little warily out of his only eye, as if he were worried that Bookman was going to lash out at him or something of the sort. Bookman didn't know why, because he had done nothing of the sort to instigate this fear of abuse in his apprentice, so kept his motions small and careful around the redhead, not wanting to distress him any further, resulting in an even longer recovery.

Whatever it was that was going around in his head, Lavi was a very good patient. Bookman had presumed he would have reverted to his age (really, now, wasn't he about seven or eight?) but Lavi retained his maturity and took care of himself for the most part. He didn't move quickly, but Lavi was able to get in and out of bed unaided to go to the water closet and to bathe on his own. If it wasn't for Bookman's insistence that he was incompetent in the medical field, Lavi would have even cleaned and bandaged his own injuries without asking for help.

He was especially tense during the times when Bookman took care of his injuries. The old man had to wonder if it had anything to do with the scars that had previously always been covered up by the over-sized haori and cloak that his apprentice wore. He was unable to discern what had caused them, but decided to concern his efforts with Lavi's black and blue and green ribs rather than the old, already-healed slashes on his back and thin shoulders. Bookman did not ask where they came from and also did not ask about the rupee (0) around Lavi's neck that the redhead kept nervously touching during these times.

Because Lavi was able to eat (it took him a while to figure out exactly how to with both of his arms in such bad condition) Bookman was able to give him pain medication so that he could deal with the effects of his ribs, fading concussion, and injured arms. These pain killers put Lavi out like a light for hours on end, leaving Bookman with a lot of spare time. He looked through maps and papers as Lavi slept, searching for indications of history in the making. There was nothing of significant importance reported, only articles about Japan's unrelenting isolationism or long columns about the sophisticated aristocracy doing one thing or another, the most interesting being that the Prime Minister of such-and-such country had been assassinated and that his secretary Sheryl Camelot was given the position. Prime Minister Camelot hosted a splendid ball that the better half of the aristocracy attended and announced his plans of foreign policy, especially with their neighboring nations.

All of it sounded normal. Even though Bookman knew of this Camelot and that there was likely to be bad blood between him and the previous Prime Minister. The assassination sounded suspicious, but _humanly _suspicious, which was of no real concern to Bookman. People were people, and people were blood-thirsty animals—had been since the dawn of time—so the article was nothing new to him. But it was something to keep his eye on, especially with Japan still practicing isolationism in a time when trade was becoming a vital source of economical development…

When the papers did little to satisfy him, Bookman turned to atlases and began to plan out the rest of their journey. His ultimate goal was to reach Europe through the Ukraine, Italy, or (if all else failed) Spain via the Gibraltar. Due to the vicious colonization of the African continent, Bookman wanted to stay clear of it; even Egypt, which was "protected" by Great Britain. The Mediterranean waters that separated Africa from Europe would be treacherous as well, due to slave trading and piracy.

He deemed that the safest way to enter Europe at this time was through the Ukrainian nations (or even the Baltic countries at this point, even though Bookman didn't want to go as far as Latvia or Lithuania to enter the Western continent) which would be the least expensive way as well. Eventually, Bookman settled on this route because of the factors of distance, expense, and safeness. And so long as they remained on the outskirts of the Russian nations, they would not be forced to prove citizenship or provide passport.

Marking the route on a map, Bookman decided they would travel by railroad through the rest of Afghanistan and Iran. The trains stopped just outside of the port town of Gorgan on the Caspian Sea and from there they would secure passage on a vessel traveling North past Baku and to Makhachkala, which was located on the northern side of the Caucasus Mountains. And from there: to the Black Sea and then finally: Europe.

It would work, Bookman knew, just by looking at the map. Not to mention he knew the Caucasus Mountain region well, especially south of Vladikavkaz and Cherkessk.

"The Caucasus Mountains?" Lavi asked, later that evening when he woke up from his drug-induced stupor.

"Yes. We will have to cross the Caspian Sea to get there," Bookman replied, wondering just how Lavi was going to protest having to get on a boat.

"Okay," was his only indication that he heard; his expression did not change.

The next day they started out for Gorgan, a three day journey that felt like three weeks when Lavi lapsed back into ill health. Unfortunately, the hard cots in the sleeping quarters did nothing to alleviate his discomfort, as they rocked even more than the poorly cushioned seats in the train cabins. Lavi spent those days lying stiffly in bed, not even comforted by the oblivion of pain-killing drugs because Bookman's stores had run out by the first day.

When asked how he felt, Lavi would utter a forced "fine" without turning to look at Bookman. His shoulders were always hunched up when this happened, as if he didn't want Bookman looking at him or touching him in any way. And even though the train was loud as it made its rickety way down the tracks, it didn't prevent Bookman from hearing Lavi's soft, short whimpers and sobs of pain on each exhale during the nights.

By the time they reached Gorgan, Lavi was so weak that they had to wait a day or so before Bookman could inquire about a boat that could take them past the usual port of Baku on the coast of Azerbaijan. They found one rather large vessel that was set to fish on the northern side of the Caucus Mountain range at a port south of Makhachkala. They asked little currency for the voyage when Bookman explained to them the situation with his "grandson" who was sickly and needed medical attention in Kiev. It wasn't hard to believe, as the strenuous journey had left Lavi pale and frail looking, not to mention unable to walk well which led to Bookman begrudgingly having to carry him. But it worked in their favor and Lavi weighed close to nothing, so Bookman did not admonish the child for falling asleep on his shoulder.

The ship set out the next day on a gray dawn, gliding across the smooth water with a quiet pride. She was a wonderfully built ship and well-cared for, appropriately named the Viktorya (1). The cabin quarters were small, but that was to be expected, as the vessel was not made for passengers, but for crewmen. At least there were beds that did not rock in constant motion and were not as uncomfortable as rocks.

The ship's captain, Sergei (2), said that the trip would only take a little over two weeks to reach their destination, maybe closer to three if the winds were not favorable. In the end, the latter part of this promise was true, as the trip ended up taking the better part of three weeks.

During that time, Bookman went under the name Yakov (3) and Lavi under Lenechka (4). The crew was friendly and welcoming, and had many stories to tell of their adventures sailing the sea. Although it didn't pay much, they loved being out on the water fishing and drifting rather than on land where there were "too many problems".

Although they were rather big, burly men—as necessary to be in their line of work—they were gentle creatures around Lavi, who had started back on the road of another slow recovery. In teasing voices that did not suit their height or bulk, they nicknamed the redhead "Pasha" (5) and developed a habit of wandering off with Lavi cradled in one of their giant arms as they walked around on deck.

Lavi's fear of water seemed strangely absent during the voyage and Bookman found him more than once peering curiously out of their porthole window to look at the grayish-blue sea. This sudden interest in the body of water seemed to appear after the first few days of rest on the ship. Maybe a seafaring trip was just what Lavi needed, as he recovered nicely during the three weeks spent off land. He was still too-pale and too-thin to be healthy, but his ribs were healing well and he regained better use of his right arm and he was silent at night instead of being kept awake because of the pain. However he was still extremely quiet around, not only Bookman, but everyone else. A few of the crewmen had actually asked if he was a mute which Bookman could answer in the negative, as he did speak, only it was becoming rarer and rarer that he did so.

Across the hall from them lived the captain's wife, Anzhela (6) who was a very kind soul that took to Lavi as quickly as the crew did. She was friendly to everyone and very polite. Bookman was surprised that her knowledge was quite extensive, especially of geography and the animal kingdom. Her hobbies were knitting and oil painting, both of which she was seen doing during their three weeks aboard the ship and by the time they had passed Baku on the southern side of the Caucasus Mountains, she had knitted Lavi a scarf and Bookman a hat.

Lavi sometimes wandered about in her company as she worked and that led to him spending more time out on deck with people and the seemingly endless stretch of sea. But that changed about a week before landing, when one of the crewmen saw a pack of seals swimming about and lounging on a few of the rocky islands they were passing by. The Viktorya was a fishing vessel whose business was the capture and transportation of meats and fish. Seals were valuable and Captain Sergei did not want to let good business get away.

"Christmas will come early," he said as the crewmen hurried to grab their harpoons and spears.

These friendly men looked a lot more dangerous with sharp weapons in their hands and as they struck mercilessly at the seals in the water below. From where Bookman was situated that day, he could see the water turn pink, then oily red. The men were pulling the corpses of these mammals up onto the deck. They slid, leaving crimson streaks upon the wood. It was barbaric, but Bookman had witnessed far worse. But in those cases, the killing was not for something necessary like food or trade, but for property or power or sometimes nothing at all.

There were about fifteen seals on deck, in varying states of death or dying when Bookman heard another sound over the wailing of the creatures and the laughing or cursing of the men killing them. Turning his head, Bookman saw Lavi standing in the doorway that led to the cabins below. It was one of the few times since the redhead had come into Bookman's company that he had such a strong expression on his face: he was horrified.

"What…are they…doing…?" he asked, his voice so quiet that Bookman could scarcely hear him; it sounded like every word was causing him pain.

"Hunting. This is their business," Bookman replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

There were more seals on deck now, an orgy of weakly writhing animals. They were wailing in trembling pitches, but the crewmen didn't bother to finish them off, throwing more bodies on top of them.

"That's not…hunting…" Lavi said. "They're not even…not even killing them!"

Bookman regarded him once more at that tone of astonished anger in his voice. That was probably the loudest Lavi had spoken in a long time and Bookman hadn't heard such a tenor in his voice since that night back in Nepal when Nirav had lost his mind to the crashing waves of the river…

"They will eventually die," Bookman answered simply, turning back to watch the scene.

The animals were still moaning and groaning, the ones with more life in them struggling to escape the mass of bodies around them, slipping on the slick blood of their dead pack. The men were laughing and cheering at their catch, still pulling a few up with their nets.

"They shouldn't make them suffer like that," said Lavi, his voice so bitter that it could have rivaled the color black.

"They are merely animals. We, as humans, are at the top of the food chain," Bookman explained, not tearing his eyes away from the deck. "That means that we rely on the animals below us for food and comforts. It may not seem fair, but that is the way it is."

The men had pulled up a seal that had been stabbed a few times, but was still thrashing about. It actually managed to hit one of the crewmen, who vindictively stabbed it all the way through its body. Blood spurted from the fresh wound, along with the others that had been inflicted upon it. The seal only managed a few more convulsive movements before it died, slumping down on the spear. The men laughed again, smeared crimson from their work.

"Who are the real animals here?" Lavi asked coldly.

A seal had managed to get away from the bloody pile of dying creatures and was pulling itself away, towards where Bookman and Lavi were standing on a slightly raised platform. Bookman could see its large eyes, slightly clouded with impending death, struggling with all its might to escape despite the situation being futile. It whimpered and wailed pathetically, the puncture wounds in its chest and back bleeding profusely. It wanted to die.

Bookman heard steel behind him and looked to see that Lavi had unsheathed his dagger. Not speaking, he began walking determinedly toward the injured animal.

"What do you think you're doing?" Bookman asked.

"Showing mercy," was his reply, not turning around to face him.

"You will not do anything of the kind," Bookman said, putting a restraining hand on Lavi's thin shoulder. "It is not our place. Bookmen watch and record. That is all."

"It's dying. It did nothing wrong. It doesn't _know_," Lavi said, his voice trembling slightly.

"It doesn't matter. You can do nothing for it," Bookman replied, reaching for the dagger.

Lavi moved so quickly that Bookman could not get a grip on it, moving out of his way so that he was out of arms reach of the old man.

"You're worried I'm going to do this again. You're worried that I'm going to do this for someone else: a _human_," Lavi said, almost spitting the word like it was poison, his eye so dark it didn't even look like him anymore. "I _hate_ people. Let them suffer. They know what they did—what they do—and they don't _deserve_ a quick death. They don't deserve anything at all."

He took a step toward the seal, gripping the dagger in his right hand. Bookman doubted that he had enough strength to kill the creature on the first try because of his still-healing injuries. But before he could get there, Anzhela appeared from starboard ran a spear right through the animal's neck, dropping it dead on the spot. Lavi stood frozen as she approached, ripping her weapon from the dead seal's flesh. A geyser of blood gushed from the wound. She wiped some sweat from her forehead and smiled at the two of them.

"Busy morning, eh?" she said conversationally.

"Indeed," Bookman replied.

The old man was unable to see Lavi's expression, but could see that he was still gripping the knife tightly, his head bowed in the direction of the deceased seal. Anzhela looked down at the animal as well, smiling. "It looks like I've gotten myself a new pair of knitting needles. Good thing too. My last ones were on the way out," she said.

Later that night, Bookman saw Lavi throw the scarf that Anzhela had knitted him overboard with a disgusted and disturbed look on his face. After that, he did not talk and did not go out on deck. The crew asked where he had gone to and some tried to get Lavi to come out of hiding, but he stayed stubbornly in place in their cramped cabin, silently reading or writing. The only time he saw the crew after that was when they docked on land and even then Lavi did not acknowledge them.

It was rather cold when they disembarked. After restocking in food and other essential supplies, from there it was many days of traveling through the dense forests that covered the mountain range.

"Where are we going?" asked Lavi curiously, although quietly, one morning after a day or two of quiet walking.

"You will see," Bookman replied vaguely.

And that was all.

**pqpq**

A week passed traveling through massive forests of deciduous trees and steep gorges of rock when Bookman calculated that Lavi's pace had dropped by twenty-three point three percent based upon the miles per day they walked. His injuries had healed for the most part, so Bookman did not understand what could be accounting for his slow pace.

"Keep up or I will leave you," Bookman informed him on several occasions when he had drifted so far behind that the old man could barely see him.

Then he would hurry to catch up, but would always end up falling behind again somehow. Bookman was seventy-seven years old and he doubted that had more stamina than a child. But there was nothing physically wrong with Lavi, as his injuries had healed and he was not feverish in the slightest, so there was no reason for his slacking. And after a few days of this, Bookman considered actually going through with his threat and not waiting for Lavi to catch up anymore.

Instead, Bookman confronted him about his bout of laziness.

"Explain to me why you are incapable of keeping up," Bookman said; he could practically see Lavi recoil slightly at the tone of his voice.

"'m tired," was his reply, his gaze pointed downwards.

"That is no excuse," Bookman said. "You sleep at night, do you not?"

"Yes."

"Then you should not be tired."

"Sorry."

"You should be. This laziness is something I will not tolerate. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Shishou."

His gaze was as dull as his voice. Defeated.

**pqpq**

The slow pace remained for a few days, only this time it was accentuated by tripping and falling.

"What's wrong with you, boy?" Bookman asked, a little rougher than he meant it to come out.

"I fell," was the answer from the redhead on his hands and knees in the dirt.

"Well then get back up, we don't have all day," Bookman said.

"Yes, Shishou," came Lavi's now automatic reply.

It wasn't long after that that he fell again. And then again. The third time he was actually lying down on the ground when Bookman backtracked to collect him.

"Get up," Bookman commanded.

"I'm…tired…" Lavi replied weakly.

"There's nothing wrong with you. Get up," Bookman said again.

"…I can't…" was the small reply.

Bookman leaned over and grasped Lavi by the upper arm to pull him upright. He ignored the small struggle from his apprentice as he brought Lavi to his feet, only to have him crumble back down to the ground when Bookman released his arm.

"Stop this game and get up or I will leave you," Bookman said, before adding rather coldly: "and this time, I will not come back."

Lavi was silent, but judging from the way that the right side of his face was tilted slightly toward him, Bookman judged that he was conscious. What he couldn't judge was why he himself was so agitated, but whatever it was that was annoying him, it was only being made worse by this recurring scenario.

"Get up," Bookman said again.

"I can't…!" Lavi answered, his voice the loudest Bookman had heard it since back on the boat.

"You will walk or be left behind. I will not carry you."

"I didn't ask you to."

There was just a faint brush of defiance in Lavi's voice. If he had the strength to be that way, Bookman thought, then he had the strength to walk. But when the redhead made no move to pick himself up off the ground, Bookman began walking.

"I am leaving," Bookman informed him as he continued up the incline through the forest. "Follow if you wish."

But no footsteps followed him for the rest of the day.

**pqpq**

That afternoon, Bookman found what he was looking for. To be more specific: _who_ he was looking for. Nestled in the lush valleys of the Caucasus Mountains there lived a certain group of individuals that Bookman had known for many years.

People called them gypsies, they called themselves free spirits, and they lived outside of the modern world. They chose nature over industrialization and a free community over being ruled by corrupt governments and political leaders. Although not learned in the ways of the modern era, out of books and tomes and through lectures in the halls of prestigious universities, they learned through nature and experience and through wisdom passed down from those before them.

"Well I'll be damned if that isn't who I think it is," said a voice just ahead of him.

Through the lingering smoke from the cooking fires and the multicolored tents and the children running back and forth, an old woman appeared. Age had been kind to her, not looking the seventy odd years she had gained, but rather sometime in her early sixties with the lines on her face not looking as deep as Bookman's were. Her hair was long and gray, in a massive braid that trailed down her back and was so long that she could tuck it into her belt if she wished. She was just as he remembered her from the last pass through the range.

"And who do you think it is?" Bookman asked while raising an (although he would never admit it) amused eyebrow.

"I'm not sure what name you go by now," she answered, closing the distance between them so they were face to face and didn't have to shout. "So I'll just wager a guess and call you the Bookman."

"And in that you would be correct," Bookman replied. "It's been a long time, Elizaveta (7)."

"A long time," she agreed, nodding. "But let us not focus on the past. Come and rest. The journey here is hard, especially from the direction you came from. That's quite a long hike from the sea."

Bookman didn't even bother to ask how she knew. Elizaveta just knew things sometimes. When asked about it, she gave him some story about how the earth could speak to her. Bookman highly doubted that, figuring instead that her powers of observation were just abnormally high.

"Where is the other one?" she asked, looking around him as they walked.

"The other one?" Bookman repeated.

"There was another one with you. You did not make the journey alone," Elizaveta replied and somehow she saw _something_ in his blank expression that made her cross her arms. "Did you or did you not come with another?"

"I did," Bookman answered honestly.

"Did you leave them out there?" she asked, pointing toward the forest.

"He was being lazy. He will eventually come," Bookman replied easily, shifting the weight of his pack from one shoulder to the other.

She gave him a piercing glare with her stunningly blue eyes, but did not press the subject any further, showing him into her large tent without another word. As the leader of her clan, she had the biggest home, the other elders of their society living in similar dwellings. They were spacious and cool in the summer while warm in the winter.

Inside, Elizaveta had a fire pit of smoldering coals and a kettle steaming steadily. There were three cups waiting as if she was expecting company. Bookman must have been looking at them with an intense stare, because she easily turned one upside down and set to work pouring tea into the two remaining upright.

"I was getting ready for you two," she explained, handing him a cup of Echinacea tea. "But enough about that. What brings you here?"

"Just passing through," Bookman said, making her laugh.

"You will never just pass through, Kostya (8)," Elizaveta said, then put a hand to her mouth at her slip. "I am sorry. You don't go by that name anymore, do you?"

"I do not," he said, before resuming the previous topic of conversation. "And I am just passing through. This is the quickest route I could think of."

"To enter Europe?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"To enter Europe," Bookman affirmed with a nod.

She made a contemplative noise, putting the kettle down away from the fire on a convenient slab of porcelain. Bookman had heard that sound before, and that meant there was something he did not want to hear but was most likely going to be told.

"Europe is dangerous now," she said after a moment. "As is Asia. I'm sure that you know this."

"Yes," Bookman answered, politely tasting the tea now that it wasn't too hot.

"The spirits are restless," Elizaveta stated, looking down into her cup. "A war that has been going on for many a century is coming to the final battle."

Bookman was quiet.

"You know that it is coming. Perhaps you have seen the signs," she said to his silence, looking at him pointedly. "But you _want_ to see it, don't you? How spectacular that would be to put in the archives, am I correct?"

Her voice was bitter. She frowned on war in general and on those who made it their trade to prey or gain from such confrontations. Even more so on the people who just went to watch, such as the Bookman Clan.

"It is my duty to observe and then to record," Bookman answered. "There is no _want_ in this situation. War is not pleasant for anyone, not even a Bookman."

"I've told you many times before that it doesn't have to be that way," Elizaveta said, her eyes and tone softening considerably. "You could have a place here."

"I could have a place anywhere I wanted," Bookman replied, his expression blank and tone guarded. "I have chosen not to. This is my place and my title. I will live and die with it. No exceptions."

"K—Bookman," she said, catching herself so that she did not use the name of one of his many old persona. "Tell me something."

"Exactly what would that something be, Elizaveta?" Bookman asked.

"Tell me what you're looking for," Elizaveta replied, her expression so open that Bookman was almost taken aback.

"I look for only the truth," Bookman answered.

"You're looking for more."

"I'm looking for that and only that."

"And nothing more?"

"And nothing more."

"How lonely it must be…" she mused aloud, her blue eyes like the color of a sad ocean in winter.

"I am a Bookman. I am a solitary creature. It is the path I take and the life I choose," Bookman answered. "Loneliness is no concern of mine."

She smiled unbelieving, but said no more. She didn't need to. Their exchange was cut off when a man burst into her tent, panting as if he had been running.

"Dmitri, what's wrong?" she asked, looking at him strangely. "Do not tell me the wolves have returned."

"I'm sorry, my lady," Dmitri answered, looking distraught. "But they have not come here yet, so we may be safe. Young Persephone saw them in the forest running East. We may be spared from their wandering this year."

"East," Elizaveta repeated, then looked at Bookman. "That is the direction that you left your traveling companion, is it not?"

Bookman felt as though someone had dumped cold water over him. Lavi was still out in the middle of the woods, perhaps still prostrate on the ground and unable to move. He cursed himself silently for leaving his apprentice to the wolves—literally.

"Yes," Bookman answered, his voice strangely detached, not giving away the sudden fear he felt for Lavi, who in his mind's eye was slowly being torn apart by the teeth and claws of the wild animals while he was still alive. "Yes it is."

**pqpq**

Heya everyone! Sorry about the long wait. Don't you love how right before summer is when you have all the work to do in the entire world? I do. (Which is sarcasm, by the way.) That's why it's taken so long to update. I'm really angry about this, because I kind of wanted to post two weeks ago, but alas…life is sometimes brutally unfair, don't you agree?

This chapter, like the last one, really didn't do well for me. I thought that it would be pretty awesome, but it doesn't feel that way. So to make up for it, there was a lot of blood. Even that wasn't as awesome as I thought it'd be. I'm going to try harder, though, as I start to get a little more into the whole akuma and Earl thing, along with what Bookman knows about the Noah and whatnot. Hopefully that will be worth reading…

In this chapter, I tried to drop a few hints that are important to the rest of the story, such as Lavi's necklace, the scars on his back, the references to both Japan and Sheryl Camelot, and Elizaveta's comments on the end of the world and what Bookman is "seeking".

Stuff you might want to know!

**0) Rupee** – a rupee is the currency in India, Pakistan, Nepal, and Sri Lanka among others. In this case, it is a coin and not a dollar currency which Lavi wears on a chord around his neck.

**1) Victorya **– the name of the ship that they took across the Caspian Sea was called the "Victory" in English.

**2) Sergei** – the captain's name means "respected" in Russian

**3) Yakov** – Bookman's alias which is the Russian form of the Jewish name "Jacob"

**4) Lenechka** – Lavi's alias, which is Russian for "the lion's son."

**5) Pasha** – Lavi's nickname on the ship; it means "small" in Russian.

**6) Anzhela **– the captain's wife's name; it means "angel" in Russian

**7) Elizaveta **– that old hippy lady (modeled after a certain someone's mom that I know in real life, actually) has the name that means "Oath of God" in Russian.

**8) Kostya **– Bookman's old persona, which is the shortened form of Konstantin which is "constant or steadfast" in Russian

**Next Time**: Since we all know Lavi is not going to be eaten by wolves, there goes the mystery. But exactly what will happen? How will this change the relationship between Bookman and his apprentice? What exactly is the difference between an alias and a persona? Lavi has _how many_ personalities? And Lavi gets a special gift, but from who?

Reviews/senseless adoration are appreciated, especially for this writer's slump I'm having…

**Dhampir72**


	21. Lost and Found

**Author's Note**: Thanks so much for all of your reviews/happy faces. You know who you are! Also thanks to **Blueballad** who wrote nice things in every review while reading through this story for the first time.

Also, I didn't bother to proofread this for the hundredth time after I revised it, so hopefully it all flows decently…

**pqpq**

Once the fact that Bookman had been a complete arse had been clarified, a search party was arranged to go into the woods to find Lavi. Elizaveta kept shooting angry glances his way, as if he didn't already know how reckless he had been with his apprentice. The party consisted of the most able-bodied men and women of the clan, all carrying an assortment of items that could be considered weapons (or cooking utentsils). They all looked at him with the same amount of negative emotion that Elizaveta had, shocked that he would leave a mere _child_ alone and defenseless. Bookman hoped that Lavi wasn't dead, just so he could kill him for causing such feelings of guilt and embarrassment.

Upon reaching the area that Bookman was certain he had left Lavi, they came upon a devastating sight.

"Are you sure this is where…?" one of the party asked, looking around.

There was nothing there. No vestiges that anyone or anything had been there. Bookman was sure that he hadn't gotten turned around, as he was very good at navigation. But maybe he made a mistake, took a wrong turn…wolves were howling in the distance and it echoed through the forest as the afternoon began to fade.

"This is where," Elizaveta replied, walking around the area in wide loops. "There was a boy here not even a few hours ago."

"Where'd he go, then?" asked someone.

"Maybe dragged off by the wolves?"

"There are no drag marks in the dirt…"

"He walked away," Elizaveta replied over some of the conversation.

She had stopped and was staring at the ground in a peculiar way and then began walking a crooked line.

"He walked this way," Elizaveta said, walking as if she were following in someone's footsteps, though there were none there. "My goodness, such tiny feet…"

The last part was murmured to herself, but everyone heard it and Bookman could feel the fiery glares aimed his way again. He managed to not look bothered as he and the rest of the party began following Elizaveta's path.

"He walks with a limp," Elizaveta said as they made their way through the woods following an imaginary trail. "Was he injured?"

"No," Bookman answered, still ignoring the way he could feel everyone's eyes watching him.

"Why did you leave him behind then?" she asked.

"He was being rather lazy, wanting to lie around all day," Bookman said, although it sounded like a lie, even to his ears. "I told him that if was going to be that way I would leave him, so I did."

"Never go back on your word, hmm, Bookman?" Elizaveta replied softly so that only he could hear.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bookman asked, keeping a stoic face.

"Never you mind," she said and continued walking.

Her trail ended at a rushing river. The golden light from the fading sun reflected off its rippling surface. Elizaveta looked troubled.

"There's nothing here after this," she announced.

"Not on either side?" someone asked and she shook her head.

Bookman did not look at the river for long. He knew that Lavi did not like water to a certain extent. There was little chance that he would cross it or even go near it except for drinking. Maybe Lavi knew that night was coming and sought shelter nearby. Bookman's eyes scanned the area for crevices in rock formations or gaps at the bases of trees. What caught his attention, however, was not a place that could be considered temporary dwelling, but a series of irregular marks on a tree a little way set back from the river. They looked like teeth marks or claw scratches.

"Wolves," Elizaveta said, looking at the same spectacle over his shoulder.

If Bookman would have been untrained, he would have flinched at her proximity, but he did not, letting his eyes move skyward now, searching the trees above for any sign that maybe Lavi had climbed up one of the enormous trunks. Through some branches, Bookman thought he caught sight of a flash of red. It wasn't from the sunset, too muted and not glowing, but it was all about finding it again. Third time looking through the spaces in between leaves, he found the red again and also a snatch of the material used on their cloaks.

"Smart kid you got there," said Elizaveta, spotting him as well.

The others looked up and a ripple of happy chatter broke out among them for finding the child they were looking for. With this outbreak of sound and talking, the shape moved up in the trees. Then the branches were moved aside and Lavi was looking down at them all, rubbing sleep out of his eye.

"Come down, young one," Elizaveta called to him. "We are here to take you home."

Even from way up high, Bookman saw the confused look that passed across Lavi's face and then that green eye flickered to him uncertainly. Maybe uncertain about how to react to Bookman's presence, or maybe uncertain as to how he should proceed. Elizaveta was more in tune with that sort of nonsense and she began again.

"Do not worry, we are friends here. Your grandfather has been worried about you, young one," she said.

Lavi looked at Bookman with a sort of searching stare, but after a moment it seemed he did not find whatever it was he was hoping to find. Then his form disappeared back into the foliage where the branches began to sway as he moved. After a few moments, Lavi appeared, his cloak wrapped around the trunk of the tree and used as leverage as he descended. Bookman felt the angry glares aimed his way again when they saw the state of his charge: left wrist still in a cast and the rest of him dirty and smeared with—

"Oh, my! Are you hurt?" asked Elizaveta, rushing to Lavi when he was closer to the bottom.

When Lavi was finally back down on the ground, Bookman could see that certain parts of his apprentice were rather bloody. His hands looked torn and there was a nasty scrape on his left cheek. He looked weary and tired and perhaps even a little betrayed, but only when his gaze happened to flicker to Bookman. The redhead shook his head in the negative to Elizaveta's question. She didn't seem to want to take that as an answer.

"Nonsense, let's have a look at you," she said, kneeling down next to him.

Lavi didn't move away from her as she began looking him over, although his one green eye said he'd rather be anywhere else than being touched by a stranger. Bookman went over towards them to be progressive, and also out of sight of the hostile search party. When he arrived, Elizaveta looked up at him with her piercing blue stare, and for once Bookman wasn't sure what to make of it.

"You should be fine," Elizaveta said to Lavi, patting the top of his head affectionately; Bookman could tell that Lavi was trying not to openly cringe away from her hand. "We'll see to you getting some medical treatment when we get home."

Taking up Lavi's cloak, Bookman unrolled it and draped it over his apprentice's shoulders, earning an inquiring look from the said redhead. Bookman made a small motion with his hand and Lavi got the message. He hesitated a moment before letting Bookman pick him up to carry him against his chest. Elizaveta looked pleased, most likely suspecting that apologies had been made. The others, however, appeared less than elated with the arrangement.

They didn't say anything against it as the party moved back toward camp. Elizaveta was all twinkling eyes and good-natured smiling thinking that something important had happened. But she wasn't the one carrying Lavi who was stiff as a board against Bookman, so taut like he was ready to spring away at any moment.

**pqpq**

The night back at what many of the party called "home" was an uneventful one. Bookman attributed it to the fact that the rest of the clan did not know of the circumstances in which Lavi was left out in the woods and that accounted for their rather genial behavior toward him that night at dinner. But the old man had a feeling that once the information was given to them, that their kindness would eventually be replaced by distrustful and disgusted stares.

Lavi's injuries were assessed and declared harmless. The cuts and scrapes were cleaned and slathered with home-made ointment that smelled like thick honey and cinnamon. He was quiet and watchful of Elizaveta and Bookman during this time, but not so quiet as to not answer their questions as to how he ended up in the tree.

"I was trying to follow sh—grandfather when I got lost. I heard wolves, so I climbed the highest tree I could find. Wolves can't get you there," Lavi answered, almost slipping by calling Bookman _shishou_.

He did not know that Elizaveta was one of the few people in the outside world who knew of the Bookman Clan and what they stood for. But Bookman was not about to tell him. Not yet, anyway.

"And why did you stay behind?" asked Elizaveta, in a gentle voice.

"I was tired," Lavi said, looking down and away.

He was normally so good at lying, but not then. At least Elizaveta didn't push the subject any further, but instead made him eat two helpings of stew before sending him to bed. Elizaveta had arranged a small dwelling to be erected for them, but it was not completed in time for sleeping in that night. Both Bookman and Lavi spent the evening in her tent, in the main room where most clan meetings took place while she took to her private quarters.

The next day dawned bright and early with people moving about the camp doing their daily chores. Elizaveta arranged some breakfast for them and they ate in relative silence that morning. Lavi borrowed a pair of leather skin shoes from Elizaveta that tied all the way up to his knee so that she could bring them on a tour of her home, as Lavi's boots had somehow been shredded quite badly and were unable to be worn any longer.

She showed them around where they cooked and stored food and supplies, where they kept their animals and chopped wood. It was a small community of about three hundred people. Elizaveta then explained that they just began to move and trade with other clans in the area in Georgia and nearby Russian territories. She informed them that it just happened within the past ten years and that prompted inter-clan marriages to keep the bloodlines from becoming so pure that they resulted in defects.

It was a peaceful life and they made some money selling their artwork or vegetables at markets in nearby towns. But other than that, they were completely isolated and spent their time living in harmony with nature and one another. To Bookman, it sounded like a dull, unfulfilling life.

During their time wandering around, Elizaveta introduced Lavi to some of the children around camp. They all looked a little wary of the new kid, who had bright red hair that no one in the clan shared. A few of them tried being friendly, but it didn't come across that way.

"Are you a pirate?" one of them asked excitedly; Lavi shook his head.

"Then why are you wearing an eye patch? Only pirates wear eye patches, right?" asked another.

Lavi was spared having to answer when Elizaveta shooed them away to go play or help their parents.

"I'm sorry," she said, before adding in a sigh. "Kids..."

Bookman knew that feeling all too well.

**pqpq**

It was only after lunch and some more wandering around that Bookman realized Lavi was gone again. He figured that Lavi would be all right and left it alone, engaging into conversation once again with Elizaveta. However, despite the redhead's absence, he was the subject of their discussion.

"Your apprentice is a strange one," said Elizaveta.

"Indeed he is," agreed Bookman, hoping it would be left at that.

But it wasn't and she continued.

"Strange hair color and complexion. Where does he hail from?" she asked.

"I am unsure," answered Bookman honestly, as he did not know of Lavi's origin.

She made a contemplative noise and then they walked in quiet for a few moments without speaking.

"Why does he wear the eye patch? Is it an injury?" Elizaveta inquired.

"I am unsure. He has never shown his right eye to me," answered Bookman. "All I know is that he said it is not an injury."

Again, another contemplative noise before she spoke.

"And that name of his…an alias, I presume?" said Elizaveta.

"Yes," Bookman replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

Out of all the people Bookman had encountered in his life, there were very few of them that he couldn't read properly. Elizaveta was one of them; her motives always unclear.

"It suits him. Not many children his age could face wolves in a vast forest and survive," she said. "And if they did survive, they wouldn't be right."

Bookman chose not to reply. They were out in the forest again, only on the other side of camp, looking out from a rock overhang that offered a good view of the trees and river. Elizaveta sat down on a smooth stone nearby; Bookman remained standing. At least this way, he had a little more height over her.

"But Lavi _isn't_ right," Elizaveta said.

He looked over at her and met her blue gaze, keeping his own as unwavering as hers.

"Something happened. Something just recently, because I can see it…he hasn't always been this way, at least since you've taken him in," Elizaveta explained, her eyes never leaving Bookman's.

"There was…an accident," Bookman said, almost not of his own volition.

"An accident," she repeated and Bookman nodded, finally looking away. "What happened?"

"Akuma," answered Bookman, keeping the guilt out of his voice and conscience. "They attacked a building where we were staying. I had been out when it happened. Lavi was trapped inside."

"That explains the cast, am I correct?" she asked and Bookman nodded again. "But there's something else that happened, too. It can't have been just the building falling on him. Certainly he was afraid, but you came back for him."

"I should not have left in the first place," Bookman said, surprising himself with his honesty. "He asked me not to go, but I left him anyway."

"But he is not angry with you," Elizaveta stated, making Bookman look over at her curiously. "Anger or betrayal would make his aura different. He's projecting something different. Almost as if he is…lost."

"Lost," Bookman repeated, almost thoughtfully.

"Lost."

**pqpq**

On their way back, they found Lavi and two little girls. The only reason they caught sight of them was because of Lavi's flaming red hair amidst the green foliage of the forest.

"What are you three doing out here?" Elizaveta asked, her voice as kind as any grandmother's.

"Weaving," answered one of the girls.

She had cropped brown hair and a freckled face complete with two baby blue eyes. In front of her were long stalks of grass that she was weaving into objects. Lavi was weaving something that looked nothing like what the first girl was doing while the other girl was just watching. She had a blank stare and a pale face framed with long, almost scraggly dark hair.

"Are you teaching Lavi and River how to weave, Persephone?" Elizaveta asked, and she nodded in reply.

"Lavi and River wanted to see so I'm showing them," Persephone explained, her tiny fingers still working as she talked.

"Well, that's nice, dear. Have fun," she said, before continuing onward.

Bookman followed her, but not after noticing that Lavi had woven a crown and placed it on top of River's head. Her blank stare remained, but she touched it curiously with almost something of a smile.

**pqpq**

"That little girl," said Bookman, that evening when he and Elizaveta were helping to prepare dinner, "has something strange about her as well."

"Ah, yes," Elizaveta sighed as she peeled sprouts. "River saw some bad things. Poor thing hasn't spoken since."

"I see," Bookman said, watching the children where they sat with the other youngsters.

All of the children were laughing and doing one thing or another, even Persephone, who was showing off what she had woven out in the forest. But Lavi and River remained off to the side, just watching. River was still wearing the crown that Lavi had made her. Bookman didn't like that. Attachments were messy things.

"Wolves, actually," said Elizaveta to his unasked question. "They got her parents when they were out searching for firewood. They took River and her older brother with them, but they never came back. We found River the next morning beside…whatever was left of her family. She hasn't been the same since."

Bookman now understood what Elizaveta meant when she was speaking of children and the wolves. Looking at the two of them, Bookman could see how they might have been the same, but also different.

"They aren't the same," said Elizaveta, not pausing in her chore to answer his unsaid observation. "River is gone for good. Lavi is merely lost in the woods. All that needs to be done is to find him."

"And from your tone I take it that you believe you can do that?" Bookman asked.

She nodded.

"Yes."

**pqpq**

Later that night, around the light of the fire, Elizaveta resumed their conversation.

"I may have an idea to help your apprentice," she said, looking at Bookman meaningfully.

"You are still practiced, then," Bookman stated.

"Yes, very much so," she said, stroking the fire. "It is unnecessary to use it much, though."

Bookman looked over at where Lavi and River were asleep with a few other children. They were a safe distance away for the conversation to continue without being overheard.

"You do not want me to use it," Elizaveta said. "You don't think there is anything wrong. You think it will sort itself out on its own."

"I will not deny that there is something wrong," Bookman answered. "He can be bred into the perfect successor. I do not want to lose him to something that can be overcome."

"But you think hypnotism is not the way," she said.

"I am not suggesting that hypnotism does not work," Bookman replied, knowing full well the advantages of the practice. "However, I do not think it is necessary for something like this. If he cannot overcome it on his own, then it is unfortunate, but then he has no future as a Bookman."

"So you propose we do nothing, then?" Elizaveta asked. "Certainly there must be something."

Bookman thought a sound kick in the head might help Lavi out of his slump, but he wouldn't say that out loud. It was bad enough everyone thought him to be a child abuser anyway. Elizaveta took his silence as Bookman having no idea what to do and she nodded resolutely.

"I will try. If that does not work, then you can do whatever you'd like," she said.

"Don't meddle. His mind is too valuable to me to be damaged any further," Bookman warned her.

And that was that.

**pqpq**

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Elizaveta told Lavi as she took him by the hand and headed toward her tent. "No harm will come to you."

Lavi looked back at Bookman before Elizaveta could pull him inside. It was a searching, curious gaze that Bookman returned with a closed off expression. The glare he reserved for Elizaveta, but he wasn't sure if she saw it or not, because the flap closed before he could see much.

Then it was just waiting after that. Bookman was no gypsy, but knew quite a bit about hypnotism. It could be used in the life he led, that was for sure, but not usually for the purpose of gaining information. It was always used in the case of making people forget…

River walked by. First one way, then the other. Each time she looked at him as if she were trying to put together pieces of a scattered puzzle. Finally she came around again and just sat next to him. She was very quiet and didn't move and of course, she didn't speak. On top of her rather disheveled head, she still wore the crown that Lavi had woven for her. It was only after a few minutes of studying her that Bookman realized her hands were cupped around one another, as if she had something inside.

She must have caught him looking at it and turned her body toward him, raising her hands up a little higher before opening them, just a crack. Inside was a butterfly, black with cerulean wings.

"You should let it go," Bookman said to her. "Or else it will forget how to fly."

Her brown eyes looked sad and she closed her hands over the butterfly again and then got up to start pacing once more. Putting out her hands in front of her, she walked back and forth again, looking at Bookman as if she didn't know what to do.

"Find flowers," Bookman suggested.

River just stood there and waited, still holding her arms out with the butterfly remaining inside her clasped hands. Bookman stood up with a stretch. It would be a while longer anyway, he presumed, and spent the afternoon searching for flowers with the mute little girl.

**pqpq**

Elizaveta found him a few hours later. She looked troubled, although completed somehow.

"Your boy is very confused," she sighed, upon sitting down beside him. "I've never seen or heard of a mind quite like that one."

"Not too damaged, I hope," Bookman said, crossing his arms.

"For what has happened to that child, I'm surprised he's as sane as he is," Elizaveta answered quietly, fiddling with a loose thread on her skirt. "Everything—I mean everything you could ever imagine—has happened to that child. Every sort of abuse, neglect, violation…everything…"

Bookman did not dwell on this piece of information, not wanting to let the images that were quickly flashing before his eyes linger for too long. He did not want to think about what had happened to Lavi, because then he got to remembering how _small_ he was, his body so thin and delicate it looked like it could just _break_. Bookman couldn't think about it; it made him feel like hitting something.

"But his mind remains intact, correct?"

"Damaged in its own right as much as yours or mine, but still intact, yes. He should be all right…" Elizaveta replied.

"For some reason, I sense a 'but' coming," Bookman said.

"…but perhaps the life you lead isn't right for him," she finished, folding her hands together.

"Why would you think that?" Bookman asked. "He seemed quite able when I selected him."

"I do not know much of your Clan, besides what your teacher told me, and what you have told me, and what I have picked up over the years," Elizaveta began. "I do have a feeling that I am right when I assume that after you are through with a persona, you discard it, am I correct?"

"Yes, that is correct," Bookman said. "However, Lavi has not taken on any persona, only aliases. I was planning on introducing the method around the time we were attacked by akuma."

"Well, perhaps you've overlooked something," Elizaveta said. "Or should I say _someone_. His name is Rohan."

She waited for that to sink in and it did, quickly. Bookman realized that Lavi had taken on an unofficial persona before becoming his apprentice. The persona of the little boy who had lost both of his parents in the Blood Rebellion back in Nepal. Rohan, the boy that Dakshina could not save. The boy that Dakshina made Lavi become. A persona. Number one. Or to be more appropriate, number zero.

"He has not discarded it then?" Bookman asked.

"No," Elizaveta replied. "And you also forget his main personality is in there as well. Not to mention his base persona known as Lavi."

"Three?" Bookman said.

"Actually, four, but that might be a defect with his main personality. A split perhaps, I am uncertain."

Bookman wouldn't admit that he was shocked into silence. But he could not believe it; that Lavi had retained a persona in his subconscious while also functioning under his base persona. And the fact that both personas dominated the still active and split main personality of his psyche was incredible. No wonder he had been so exhausted.

"And before you ask, I think it would be unwise to delete any of these personalities," Elizaveta said. "It could mean the extermination of certain aspects of his base persona. Any tampering with his original personalities could actually harm him further."

"The original personality should remain in tact indefinitely," Bookman replied. "And the base persona is essential. The extra persona should not pose a problem if it is to be removed. However—" he said, before she should speak, "because it was done prematurely and by an inexperienced person, the persona has too many flaws and holes in it and has probably already meshed with his base persona 'Lavi'. It shall remain untouched, so long as it does not pose a threat to his functioning self."

"I assumed you would say that," she said with a nod. "I did my best to soothe the loudest voices there. Rohan and Lavi will give you no trouble, but it's One and Two that will worry you."

"One and Two?" Bookman repeated.

"Lavi does not remember his name. I assume it was not Rohan because it is separate from the others, just as Lavi is separate. However One and Two are one entity as far as I can tell. These are his original personalities. Actually, just One and Two developed later. One is easily frightened and is afraid of being alone. Two is angry, nihilistic, and misanthropic almost. They are…irrational and will probably only surface in times of stress."

"But other than that," Bookman said.

"But other than that, Lavi is fine, body and mind. He is in control again," Elizaveta replied, looking at him with her piercing gaze. "He did well to try and control these other personalities under pure willpower, but in times of great duress, he may lose his equilibrium. The only thing I could think of to keep himself in check, as these personalities cannot be deleted, would be meditation when he is under stress."

"There is something else you'd like to say," Bookman said, narrowing his kohl rimmed eyes at her. "This is where that 'but' is going to come in again, is it not?"

"Like I said before, your way of life may not be good for him," Elizaveta said. "Any more personas and he may not be able to handle it. His mind might break under that sheer weight."

"But if what you are saying is true," said Bookman, "then the persona of Rohan is underdeveloped so it is in truth, not a complete personality. And if Lavi's main personality is truly a split, then there is only one personality that could be active at a time. The only challenge would be making 'Lavi' become dormant to another persona. However, if it is done properly and discarded effectively, then there should be no problem."

"If you are willing to take that risk, you may," Elizaveta replied, although did not look happy about it. "I did all that I could and you can do what you wish from here onward."

She stood up and brushed the dirt from her knees. Bookman stood with her.

"I appreciate your help," Bookman said, with a slight bow to her.

"Your appreciation is accepted graciously," she answered, with a small bow of her own. "And I appreciate your help as well."

"My help for what, if I might ask," Bookman replied.

"For spending time with River," she answered with a smile. "I haven't seen her smile like that in a long time."

"It was nothing. I just found some flowers for her," Bookman said, a little disconcerted now that he had been caught being nice.

"To you it may be nothing, but to her it was much more than that," Elizaveta said. "Almost as if we may have a chance at bringing her back from the place we thought she would never return from."

The forest was quiet and Bookman bowed back to her.

"Your appreciation is accepted graciously."

**pqpq**

That night, Lavi was almost his old self again. Still composed, still mature, but not so quiet. He was actually quite sociable. Well, except for his bad mood.

"Graaaamps," he whined. "It huuurts…"

"You won't die, so don't make so much noise," Bookman said, smoking some quality tobacco out of a borrowed willow pipe.

"But it really hurts…" Lavi said, touching one of his now-pierced ears.

"Don't fuss," Bookman said. "You'll need pierced ears anyway, one day. The sooner, the better."

"Is it so I can wear earrings like yours?" Lavi asked, looking at the cylindrical braided pendants that dangled from Bookman's ears.

"One day," Bookman replied with a nod.

"Why?" asked Lavi.

It seemed that over a month of not speaking made him chatty. But for some reason, Bookman didn't mind answering. Perhaps it was the nice night, so close to spring, and the good pipe and fresh tobacco. Maybe it was having his apprentice back too, but he'd never admit that part.

"These earrings are a marker of status," Bookman said, removing one of them.

They were rather heavy for something made of brass, but detailed in silver and gold. They were forged in Cairo years and years ago and molded after a specific design that had been affiliated with the Bookman Clan for ages. They were passed down from master to apprentice when the apprentice took the master's title as Bookman.

"They are also an assist in dire times," Bookman continued, popping the bottom off of the earring.

The pendant was hollow, but inside there were a few small tablets.

"What…are those?" Lavi asked, looking at circular pills.

"Poison," Bookman answered; Lavi paled.

"Why poison?" he inquired.

"A Bookman's secrets die with him. If those secrets are ever in jeopardy of being discovered, then the Bookman must make the ultimate sacrifice," was the answer.

"Oh…would it…hurt?" Lavi asked, glancing up at Bookman for the first time.

"No. It would be like going to sleep," Bookman said, sliding the tablets back inside.

"Only you wouldn't wake up," Lavi added, touching one of his piercings with a small wince.

Bookman nodded, putting his earring back in.

"Only you wouldn't wake up."

**pqpq**

The next afternoon some men brought out their flutes and other instruments and began playing a tune. Everyone stopped what they were doing to start a festive dance for the first day of spring. Men and women danced in pairs in a circle around a main pillar of stone and flowers along with various other offerings to the Goddess of their faith. The music was almost a jig of sorts and people were laughing gaily. Children were dancing with each other among their parents.

On one of the outskirts of the main circle, Lavi was sitting with Persephone and River and a few other children, watching everyone dance. Bookman watched as Lavi watched their feet and each motion with a steady emerald gaze. Persephone jumped to her feet to try and get Lavi to dance with her, but he instead turned to River and pulled her inside the circle with everyone. They began dancing with the others almost as if they were meant to, their steps the same as the adults around them, never faltering, even when the tune sped up faster.

River was smiling as they danced around the circle. There were flowers in her hair, tucked into the small crown that Lavi had woven for her.

"So I guess I can't convince you to stay," Elizaveta said, sitting beside him. "Both you and Lavi would have a place here."

"Your offer is gracious, but I cannot accept," Bookman answered, still watching the dances.

"I know. You just aren't that kind of person. You'll keep wandering and wandering for forever," she said, almost sadly. "You'll settle somewhere eventually. Hopefully."

"The only place I'll ever settle is my grave, you know that," Bookman replied. "And even then, it is tradition that a Bookmen's ashes be scattered into the wind so that he will never rest in one place."

"How dramatic," Elizaveta said with a sigh. "I presume that I will see you in the afterlife then."

Bookman did not want to admit that he had no belief in the afterlife, at least not to her. She had been a kind soul in his travels and did not want to leave off on a bad note with such a woman.

"The afterlife, indeed," Bookman agreed with a nod.

She nodded as well and they sat in silence to watch everyone celebrate.

**pqpq**

"You have a safe trip, now, you hear?" Elizaveta said, patting Lavi's head.

This time, he did not flinch away from her. Lavi had made some progress from where he had been upon arriving, and that was something impressive in Bookman's eyes.

"We will," Lavi replied, with the sort of smile that could have been real if one was easily fooled.

"And you keep that old codger in line," she said, pointing her thumb in Bookman's direction; he angrily puffed his cigarette at her insult. "If he's mean to you, just drop kick him in the head."

Lavi looked at Bookman, who glared at him as if daring him to try it, much less think about trying it. Then he shook his head, a little frightened, and leaned over to whisper to her.

"But he's a ninja…didn't you know…?" Lavi said quietly, but not too quietly that Bookman couldn't hear him.

The old man actually covered the lower part of his face under the guise that he was reaching for his cigarette when in fact he was doing his best not to grin. If there was one thing the kid was good for, it was tricking him into believing that he was a ninja. Elizaveta laughed.

"Whatever you say. He's a little slow on his left, though," she whispered back, and Bookman practically dropped his cigarette. "Sparring injury, if you get my drift."

Bookman shook his head at Elizaveta.

"I am officially never meeting you in the afterlife for that one," he growled, making her laugh.

Lavi looked between them, confused.

"I don't get adults sometimes…" he muttered from between them.

He didn't get to say much more than that because something ran right into him and knocked him to the ground flat on his face.

"Ow…" came his muffled grumble from underneath a second body.

River had run at Lavi and tackled him at full speed, catching him completely off guard. She was smiling so widely at having caught Lavi that if she would have had a voice, she might have been laughing.

"Ri...verrrr…gerroffome…" Lavi mumbled, still face down on the ground.

River made a disappointed face, but complied and got off Lavi. She was hiding something behind her back with an innocent face.

"Why'd you run into me?" Lavi asked, although not sounding angry as he picked himself up from the ground, brushing dirt and leaves off himself.

She just continued smiling and looked up and then down, and then shifted a little, her arms still behind her back.

"Is that how you say goodbye to someone?" asked Lavi.

River actually frowned, her expression turning sad.

"Oh, hey. I'm sorry. Don't be sad," Lavi said, looking around like he didn't know what to do in this situation.

The little girl went up to him and hugged Lavi tightly. In one of her hands she clutched the paw of a stuffed animal rabbit. Lavi's face was confused, but he returned the embrace a little awkwardly. River then pulled away abruptly and shoved the rabbit at Lavi, who stared at it, just as confused.

"Oh, River, are you giving Lavi your bunny?" asked Elizaveta, sinking to one knee beside the girl.

She nodded, still holding out her stuffed animal toward him. It was a patchwork creation of different fabrics that had obviously been well-loved and well-cared for. One eye was a button, the other was missing, or at least Bookman presumed it was, as the right was hidden by a cloth eye patch.

"River, I don't want to take your rabbit," Lavi said; she actually looked insulted that he wouldn't accept it from her and forcefully took his hands and put her toy into them.

"She's giving you a present, Lavi," Elizaveta explained gently, as if the boy had never received a gift before. "Take it. She wants you to have it. Isn't that right, River?"

She nodded again, clasping Lavi's hands over her gift. Her face was rosy and lips pouting, but at least her eyes were dry. She had probably spent too many years crying to uselessly waste any more.

"Thank you," Lavi said, his voice rather small

Her lips moved in a certain pattern, that anyone could tell she said:

"You're welcome."

Maybe she wasn't as lost as everyone thought.

**pqpq**

Whew, that took me a really long time…I can't believe it, because I've had this written for ages too –dodges things thrown at her- Heh, sorry about that everyone. If it's helpful to know, I've actually written a better outline for this story, so I actually know what I'm going to do with it (for real!) now! Maybe the rest of this story won't **suck as bad as the last few chapters…**(Although I am curious as to who got the **Firefly** reference in here if you watch it!)

Also, the reason why this took so long to write is because there is a separate part to it. The missing piece in this chapter was the actual interview that Elizaveta conducts in her tent. **An extra chapter** is being uploaded right after this one with that missing piece if you're interested. It's called **Me, Myself, Him, and I** which shows Lavi's DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder, also known as Multiple Personality Disorder) which sort of delves into how Lavi is so good with his persona throughout his life, because he had been dealing with separate personalities since his very young childhood. Something random that will kind of make you twitch. Also, next chapter half-way written. So…I have been working (kind of)…

**Next Chapter:** Bookman helps Lavi to create his first persona. They arrive in Europe and some crazy shit breaks out. What happens to Lavi? Jeez, this kid just keeps getting hurt (something that is actually IN his character profile—that's your only hint)! And Bookman really doesn't want to go bald…

Thanks for all the reviews/watches/favorites/alerts and whatnot to help with my fail lately. Hopefully I wont suck so bad now that I have an outline! –looks around- Now where'd I put that Bob Evans placemat that I wrote it on…?

**Dhampir72**


	22. Stray Bullets

**Author's Note**: Thanks for all the nice words about my apparent delusions of suck and fail. I really appreciate all the nice things you guys had to say! And thanks so much to those of you who read and reviewed **Me, Myself, Him, and I** because that made me feel happy inside!

**Historical Note**: Okay, honest here, I sort of failed this unit that we talked about the Crimean War, the Russo-Turkish War, and anything in general that had to do with Russia or the Balkans, because I really just didn't care. So all of this is me guessing. It's an alternate 19th century anyway, right? So, that's my defense and I'm sticking to it…! (-is lame and is shot-)

**pqpq**

The trip through the rest of the mountains wouldn't be something that Bookman would consider "pleasant" although it was much better than the first part of their journey. Lavi was keeping up, at least, and being helpful and curious the entire way. Bookman should have encouraged the curiosity more than he did, but it might have been too many weeks of listening to silence that made him unaccustomed to talking. Lavi somehow picked up on it after a day or so and when questions would unconsciously make their way past his lips, he'd always look sorry he said anything at all.

After Bookman got used to his presence once more, when they did talk (mostly Bookman talking and Lavi at some points asking questions or making small remarks/sounds to show that he was listening) it was mostly about the flora surrounding them, some fauna that they encountered, and simple things such as inquiries about the formation of mist or why leaves were green. Bookman also explained to Lavi some of the healing properties of plants, flowers, roots, and mushrooms that could be found growing in the Caucasus Mountains.

"You really _can_ make medicine out of this stuff?" Lavi asked one day, when they had stopped to gather some of the various plant life.

"Of course. Witchdoctors and apothecaries have been doing it for ages. Botanists as well," Bookman explained, separating the leaves from the roots and the berries.

"Like Bartleby and Hans," Lavi said, referring to the two scientists back in the mountain. "They used all kinds of weird things to make medicine for pain or burns. Even by using poison."

"Yes, even poisonous plants or roots can be utilized as medicine. It's all about extracting that which makes that poison which can actually counter other toxins if used correctly…"

Bookman taught Lavi a few things on their journey, about what kinds of herbs, roots, or berries could make certain substances. Lavi's good memory came to use, as he was quick to learn, and he was able to make a burn salve, disinfectant ointment, and Bookman even showed him how to make small pain-killing capsules using the bark and sap of certain trees.

"So how'd you learn all of this?" Lavi asked, the night before they would reach Sochi, a port city on the Black Sea. "Reading books?"

"Reading books, manuals, medical journals," Bookman replied, smoking a cigarette by the light of the fire. "A person learns by first-hand experience also. Out on the battlefield, you can learn a lot of things about medicine."

"But…I thought we weren't supposed to…help people," Lavi asked, looking somewhere else, as if he thought he had brought up a wrong point and didn't want to admit it.

"I did not say that I, as Bookman, have aided with any medical treatment on the battlefield," Bookman answered, wanting to be clear. "But sometimes the skills are necessary, not only for yourself or those traveling with you, but for favors as well."

Lavi blinked and then it was like a light went on in his head somewhere.

"Like when we were back in India, and you helped that little girl to get us those camels, right?" Lavi asked.

"Yes," Bookman replied. "You know of Alchemy, what with whatever Tweedledum and Tweedledee explained to you, do you not?"

"Yes…" Lavi replied, trying to hide his smile at the nicknames that Bookman had given to Manas and Ganesa.

"Then you know of the main principle then; that of equivalent exchange?"

"The Golden Rule."

"Correct," Bookman said on the exhale, flicking the ashes from his cigarette away. "A Bookman's life is something like that. In the Latin, it is called _quid pro quo_."

"Something for something?"

"Precisely. As we are observers in life, we should not step in and interfere with _anything_. However," Bookman said, stopping whatever Lavi was about to say with a raised hand. "If there comes a time in which we need something and we can offer our services in exchange for said something, then that is what we do. Although we have interfered, we have balanced the scales. Something for something."

"Something for something…" Lavi repeated, his face downcast a little.

"Something for something. Always. Otherwise we step over the boundaries that we should not cross," Bookman said, putting out his stump of a cigarette. "Now, go to sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow."

Lavi complacently lay down across the fire from Bookman, closing his eye.

"Alice in Wonderland."

"What?"

"Tweedledum and Tweedledee are from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. You read that? I thought fiction would be considered a waste of time in your eyes."

"…go to bed…"

The stupid kid was grinning too.

**pqpq**

During the journey to Sochi, Bookman explained to Lavi the concept of persona in more depth.

"A persona is much different from an alias," Bookman said. "An alias is truly a pseudonym, which is just a fictitious name. It comes from the Greek word _pseudonymon_ which roughly translates to 'lie name'. It is appropriate, as that is what an alias is: a fake name. But a persona is much more than that."

Lavi was quiet while they settled down for a brief rest, taking seats on some boulders that had been churned up from the ground. The trees still had their roots attached to these rocks that sat there like weary statues. His apprentice was distracted by the thick roots that had wrapped around the stone, staring at the phenomena and touching it with his hands, open curiosity in his expression. Lavi's mind was like a sponge for knowledge; if only Bookman could get this information to sink in as well, as it was exceedingly important.

"A persona is something that can actually become a _part_ of you," Bookman explained, getting Lavi's attention by throwing a small rock at his head. "It is much more than just a false name that others call you by. This is a role, or a character, that you present to others. This word derives from the Latin for 'mask' or 'character'. Words have meaning, as you can see. A persona is the _mask_ you wear for others to see. A persona is the _character_ that you play when interacting with them."

"But why do we have to have personas? Why can't we just be a different name wherever we go?" Lavi asked, genuinely curious as he rubbed the spot on his head where he had been hit.

"One day, all will be explained to you," Bookman replied. "But think of it this way: when you talk to someone in your travels under an alias, you may have a different name and maybe a contrived past to tell them of, but that can only get you so far. A persona insures that you have, not only a unique identity, but a separate personality as well. It allows you to connect and yet to not connect. They are important because they can get you places you need to be and out of places you should not be."

"Well, that wasn't cryptic at all," Lavi said dryly, making Bookman almost smirk.

"Let's just say they are an essential key to being a Bookman. Without the use of personas…there can be negative effects," Bookman said vaguely.

"Like what?" Lavi asked, making Bookman curse curiosity.

"During your time as a Bookman, you will see many things. Almost all of them are…unpleasant, to put it nicely," Bookman answered, lighting a cigarette. "By using personas, you can distance your main personality from these atrocities you bare witness to. You will remember it, although it won't feel like first hand. And when you go back to record it, there is no doubt that the information will still remain there, but the actual feeling as if you are there will disappear, almost as if you are sitting in the back of the audience and not in the first row. It almost completely eliminates bias."

"So, it'll make it…not hurt so much. Or make you angry as much," Lavi said after a moment. "The actual person that you played at the time will remember it and you will only see it but not _feel_ it?"

"Something to that effect, yes," Bookman answered, thinking that his master had done a better job explaining it than he had. "Personas basically keep your mind from breaking. After all, there is only so much the human mind can take before it turns on itself."

It was quiet after that, Lavi back to looking at the roots of the trees and Bookman watching the clouds move in the blue sky.

**pqpq**

Lavi's very first persona was named Ensio, which meant "first" in Scandinavian. Bookman found it appropriate, and Lavi took to it quite well.

Setting up a persona was a little like decorating a room. The room was a bare slate, with four white walls, a bed, and a ceiling. It began white, with no windows and one door. This blank slate was a persona. Then it was all about building it up with items and color to create personality, individuality, and depth.

Ensio was a child, bright, cheerful. The room was yellow with childish innocence and happiness. There was a window as well, so that sunshine could come inside. He was intelligent, so there were some bookshelves crammed with books (he was a child, so he had to be slightly messy, after all). Ensio went under the childish guise that believed himself to be a pirate, which was why he wore an eye patch, and which was why there was a small model of a pirate ship sitting on a table under the window.

Over time, other things could fill the room. The blankets on the bed signified that he liked to be wrapped up in them at night and the table beside where he slept had a lamp, because he was afraid of the nighttime. Black was not anywhere in the room, as he did not like the night, or storms, or death.

Up on a high shelf sat two metal boxes that had locks on them. One read TEARS and one read COMFORT. They were out of reach and if somehow gotten a hold of, they would not open. No matter what the persona, Bookman made sure that Lavi needed neither tears nor wanted comfort.

Ever.

**pqpq**

Lavi did well as Ensio. If Bookman was prone to giving compliments, he might have said Lavi did exceedingly well as Ensio. Although he did slip up once or twice when Bookman called him "Lavi" instead of "Ensio", responding to his previous name instead of that of his persona. But it was understandable that he wouldn't be perfect.

Not yet anyway.

Bookman and Lavi traveled from Sochi across the Black Sea, stopping to dock at Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula. When they set sail for Constanta in Romania, they were blown off course by a storm which sent them north. They docked in a port city about fifty miles south of Odessa in the Ukraine.

The journey was rather dull, nothing to do really. Lavi tried out his new persona with the people on board their ship, making acquaintances with a few other children. One of the children's parents remarked that they were so glad their offspring had such a nice playmate with Bookman's "grandson". Lavi would wander around with them during the day, doing whatever children did (most likely getting into mischief) and then at night he'd come back to their cabin looking drained.

"The other kids are boring," he complained one evening, looking out their porthole at the dark sea before turning away to curl under the blankets. "They don't even know who Homer is, how sad is that?"

While in the Ukraine, Bookman presumed that it would be a good idea to call headquarters, as they had most likely figured the two of them for dead after the destruction of Qandahar. Lavi was standing on a crate next to Bookman so he could match his height and be able to listen in on the phone conversation.

"Hello?" asked Enoch, after they had been patched through to him.

"Shepherd," Bookman said, hearing something break on the other end.

"B-Bookman? You're _alive_?!" Enoch asked.

"Don't sound so disappointed," Bookman replied dryly.

"S-Shut up, you! It's really annoying to think that you just dropped off the earth like—"

"Enoch! Enoch! Who're you talking to?" came the sound of two identical voices in the background.

"Get out of my office, you two," Enoch said to them, Bookman getting the mental image of the Shepherd pointing at the door.

"Noooo! Who're you talking to? Your _girlfriend_?"

"Or maybe…"

"Your _boyfriend_?" they chorused.

"Shut up. I'll _kill_ you."

"It's Hans, isn't it?" asked one twin.

"And his delicious mustache?" asked the other.

"I'm talking to Bookman, all right, get out!" Enoch yelled at them over some scuffling. "THAT DOESN'T MEAN PULL UP CHAIRS!"

"What's going on? Who are you all talking to?" Dakshina's voice was heard over the receiver.

"Bookman," the twins said and there was the sound of something falling.

"No, don't move that chai—just…don't get any of it on you; it might eat through skin, I'm not sure. Here, sit here," Enoch was saying.

"Ooer, there's a chair shortage, you know what that means, don'tchya, Bookman?" asked one of the twins.

"GIVE MY PHONE BACK!" Enoch shouted in the background ("Don't move so much, Enoch! I'll fall right off your lap!" Dakshina cried).

"No! Anyway, how are you?" asked one twin.

"We thought you guys were dead!" said the other before the phone clattered onto the desk ("That was a low blow, Dakshina!" said one of the twins).

"We were listening to the reports and—" Dakshina began, but the phone was taken back from her.

"Qandahar got LEVELED!" said a twin.

"WE WERE PLANNING YOUR FUNERAL!" they shouted.

"Stop it, you two. Let me talk!" Enoch said in the background, but his attempts to reach the phone were futile.

"Is Lavi okay?" asked one twin.

"LAVI! ARE YOU DEAD?" they shouted.

"Yes . I'm talking to you from the afterlife," answered Lavi.

"NOOOOOO!" they cried.

"What are you guys, stupid?" Lavi asked, looking at the phone, as if offended by its lack of intelligence.

"WE LOVE YOU!" they said.

"You're both creepers," muttered Lavi.

"WE STILL LOVE YOU! ARE YOU OKAY?!" they shouted.

"Um. Yeah," Lavi said.

"Don't sound so unsure!" the twins snapped. "What's been happening?"

"A house fell on me," Lavi put in, unhelpfully.

There was a lot of jumbled swearing and clattering for the phone.

"A HOUSE FELL ON YOU?" the twins shouted.

"WHAT?!" Dakshina and Enoch sounded from behind them.

"Yeah. It kind of sucked," Lavi said.

"_AI YA_ (1)! WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL SOONER?!" the twins yelled.

"He was incapacitated after said house fell on him," Bookman put in, even more unhelpfully.

"BOOKMAN! WE'RE GOING TO KILL YOU!" shouted a chorus of four voices.

"Because he's somehow responsible for having a house fall on me?" Lavi asked, sounding confused.

"DON'T DEFEND HIM!" was their reply.

"WE HATE YOU. DIVORCE IS BEING FINALIZED!" barked the twins.

"You're both lacking in something that should be located in the cerebral cortex," replied Bookman, having to light a cigarette because of their stupidity.

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?! WHY?!" they shouted.

"GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!" Enoch yelled over them.

"BUT WE WANNA TALK TO LAVI!" they answered loudly back.

"OUT!" Enoch commanded, most likely pointing at the door again.

"NOOOOOO!" they whined.

Sudden screaming and then a morbid giggling.

"_TA MA DE_ (2)! GET RID OF THAT GORRAM PLANT!" was the last thing heard from the twins as the door shut.

Evil chuckling from Enoch.

"Good girl, Abia," he said, sweetly to his hellish pet.

"Bookman, this better not be true about—"

"It is," Bookman said, before Dakshina could finish.

"W-W-Well how could you let that happen?! Weren't you watching him? What were you doing? You—"

But before she could thoroughly rip into Bookman, he took his bag of loose tobacco and rubbed it against the phone.

"What's that? You're breaking up," Bookman said, before hanging up.

Lavi blinked, but didn't say anything.

"I can only stand idiocy for so long," Bookman explained, and Lavi nodded in understanding.

**pqpq**

Ensio stayed around for a few weeks, even after they were on land again. At least Lavi was putting his childish good looks to use. An old innkeeper took pity on them one night in Tiraspol when they looked haggard from a long day of walking and insisted that they have a hearty meal, on the house. And just outside of Kishinëv, a woman manager of a hotel was denying Bookman boarding for the night until she saw Lavi's suffering look and melted right there. She allowed them to stay in an incomplete attic room for half-price and made sure that Lavi had two extra pillows and a heavy blanket for the night. His adorable looks also got them out of paying a few meals and drinks when stopping at small bars. All he had to do was turn on the cute and the barmaids were all over him. If Bookman had half a mind, he would have thought Lavi was doing it on _purpose_ because he liked being squeezed against a woman's bosom more than he should.

Although Lavi had gotten better at adapting to the new concept of persona, Bookman wanted to delete Ensio when they had passed Nisporehy. It was for the best, as Bookman had been reading about increasing amounts of violence in that area. The last thing he needed was such a childlike personality that could get them into trouble. But he never got a chance to show Lavi the correct way to remove one personality from his sentient being.

Because the violence came all too quickly.

**pqpq**

They were in Ungheni when it happened. Because of the Russian construction of the railroad through the area, it was alive with activity. It was just another sunny day, hot, humid and the city was full of people going about their business.

There were tensions between the Moldavians and the Russians. The Russians were preparing to go to war with the Ottoman Empire to recover territorial losses from their failure in the Crimean War. Other nations, the big three being Romania, Serbia, and Montenegro were joining forces with Russia to combat the Turkish Empire. However, the Moldavians wanted to continue with their lives without another war.

As if that wasn't bad enough, there were also rising tensions between popular political parties. After the publications of communist and socialist materials by Karl Marx, many followers of the party were trying to spread the ideas around Europe, hoping to convert the entirety of the continent to the new way of thinking. They were met with opposition of all kinds, especially from current established governments.

Socialism in Moldova wasn't welcome, despite the number of people in the lower class of society. They lived in fear of more opposition and more war, especially from Russia, that controlled the northern half of their country and occupied the rest of it in preparation for the upcoming war.

All of this was happening at once in the large city when Bookman and Lavi arrived (Ensio's adorable nature had gotten them a free ride in the back of someone's cart, saving them a half-a-day of walking) in the afternoon. They were looking for somewhere quiet to spend the night when the first shots rang out, too close to them.

A Bookman's duty was to watch and record, but that was not an option at this point. They were in the middle of the crossfire, a place where Bookmen should never be. Not only was it unsafe, but it could also make their accounts biased, tainted by the fear and adrenaline of self preservation.

At the sound of gunfire, people began panicking, kicking up dust, scaring animals. There were frightened shouts and parents clutching their children as they ran through the mob. Bookman was no exception to this, grabbing Lavi by the wrist and making off into the sea of people. Most were running frantic as random bullets took out surrounding windows or pieces of the nearby buildings. Those that fell down were trampled upon by people not bothering to look where they were going, too busy keeping their eyes open and searching for danger as they ran for somewhere safe.

Gunfire was everywhere, from the rooftops and from the ground. People in the mob had guns as well, shooting aimlessly. A woman clutching her infant child went down in front of Bookman, red seeping through her dress, her child crying from underneath her still body. He felt hesitation in Lavi's arm at the sight of her, but Bookman pulled him along regardless.

The hesitation appeared only a few other times, in which several people fell dead or near dead in their path.

"Just keep running, Ensio," Bookman advised him, still pulling his apprentice along through the crowd.

People were fleeing the town, running out into the countryside and seeking shelter there. Lavi fell down on the hard dirt-and-brick road, Bookman dragging him for a few feet before hoisting him up to a standing run again. Nearby were corn fields full of high crop and Bookman headed in that direction, he and the others making leeway for it dodging the bullets that skimmed the grass near their feet.

Running through the corn field wasn't something that Bookman would ever want to do again. Each stalk had leaves that felt like razors when he ran past them. Lavi fell a few times, but Bookman's pace did not slow. It was only when the shots ringing out were far away and the sounds of the footsteps around them ceased that Bookman chanced to slow their pace down to a fast walk.

"Can't we…stop now…?" came Lavi's voice from behind him.

"It is unwise to," Bookman answered.

"Just for…a minute…?" he asked.

Not stopping in his pace, Bookman turned his head to look back at Lavi, seeing that his apprentice was rather pale and sweaty, looking a little ill. Although he looked pathetic enough, Bookman didn't think it wise to stop just yet.

"No, not now," Bookman said.

Lavi said nothing else for a while, until the sky above them melted into a semi-purple and he spoke again.

"Can…we stop…now?"

"In a few minutes," Bookman replied, looking for a place with more cover.

All he saw were corn stalks in each direction. It looked like there was nothing for a long while. There was something unsettling about it. Bookman felt an increase in weight on his arm and glanced down at his feet. Lavi's wrist was still in his hold, but the redhead had knelt down on the ground for a break.

"Come on, don't just sit there. We've got to keep moving," Bookman said, giving his apprentice a shake.

But Lavi didn't move or make any recognition that he heard Bookman.

"I know you must be tired, but I will not carry you," Bookman said, then let his voice soften a little, feeling slightly bad. "We will rest soon."

And if Bookman wouldn't have had a moment of human kindness and touched the top of Lavi's head gently, he wouldn't have known until it was too late.

"Ensio, are you ill?" Bookman asked, kneeling down slightly next to him.

"…don't…feel good…" was Lavi's forced reply.

Bookman knew he wasn't faking, able to feel the fever burning through his fiery hair. Lavi's shoulders shook as he began coughing, eventually his strength giving out, leading him to lean on Bookman for support.

"…hurts…" he ground out when he was through.

"Where?" Bookman asked, gently moving him.

His face was white enough to be transparent and hot enough to be an iron. The fever was high, most likely due to the physical exertion of running for so long. But that wasn't what worried Bookman; the blood on his apprentice's lips was what caused concern.

"…tired…" he sighed, the glazed green eye struggling to stay open.

"I didn't ask if you were tired. I asked where it hurts," Bookman said, gripping Lavi's chin to keep him conscious.

"Sor…ry…"

Bookman was about to scold him again when an odd feeling made him look down. Lavi was resting against him, side pressed against his abdomen. And where they touched, Bookman felt something wet and warm.

"_Ta ma de_ (2)…" Bookman muttered.

It wasn't too dark to see what it was. _Blood_.

"Stay awake," he said to his barely-conscious apprentice.

Laying him down on the ground, Bookman pushed aside Lavi's cloak and could see how much damage was done just by the way the shirt clung to his body with blood. Peeling the clothing off Lavi, Bookman assessed the wound: a gunshot wound to the right side, low enough that it didn't hit a lung, which was fortunate. And judging from the fact that there was both an entrance and an exit wound, Bookman ventured to say that Lavi would be all right.

Maybe.

"How long has it been hurting?" Bookman asked, not wanting to think that he had forced Lavi to run for so long with such an injury.

"Dunno…" was the unhelpful answer.

Bookman dug into his bag to find something clean to staunch the flow of blood. Pressing it firmly against the wound, Bookman's free hand pushed against Lavi's shoulders to keep him from moving.

"…ow…" he gasped.

The two wash cloths that Bookman had used for the bleeding were soaked through quickly and the old man's brow furrowed. How much blood did Lavi lose? Digging through his pack with crimson hands, Bookman secured some gauze and disinfectant.

"You're going to hate me," Bookman said to Lavi's panting form as he poured a liberal amount of alcohol into a square of cloth. "Bite on this."

Bookman produced the leather wallet that he used while in Europe and extended it toward Lavi. He looked at it for a moment before opening his mouth to accept it, probably figuring it was better than biting his tongue off.

"Be ready," Bookman warned him, before pressing the soaked gauze onto the wound.

Lavi's small body tried to arch away from him, but Bookman held him down with strength that many wouldn't believe for his age. It was important that the wound was cleaned or else Lavi could die of infection. If the infection hadn't already set in…Bookman more determinedly set to binding the injury after it had been cleaned. After that, Bookman let Lavi rest against his pack as a pillow, keeping him partially upright while he moved in and out of unconsciousness as the old man thought out his options, twirling the wallet now accented with deep bite marks.

They could remain there until morning under safe cover or they could keep going. The medical side of Bookman was opting for staying the night, as Lavi shouldn't be moved in his condition. However, there was something _off_ about this place. Almost as if they were being watched somehow…

It was dark when Bookman decided they should move. Despite the medicine that Bookman had given to Lavi, his fever hadn't abated, and neither had his pain. The nearest city was a few miles away, across the Prut, and Bookman ventured to guess that they could make it by morning.

"Where're we goin'?" Lavi asked when Bookman began to move him, his words rather slurred.

"To Ungheni," Bookman answered, slinging his pack on before very carefully lifting Lavi into his arms.

"Okay…" he whimpered at the change of position. "But isn'tit where we jus'were?"

"There is a city on the other side of the border with the same name," Bookman replied, a little relieved that Lavi was at least aware enough to pick up on that.

"Oh…" Lavi murmured, not sounding like he cared much either way.

He really had to tell the kid to eat more, but at least he was light enough that Bookman could carry him a few miles without tiring. Lavi rested against Bookman's chest, head on his shoulder, so close to the old man's ear that he could hear each ragged breath with each step he took.

"You have no luck, kid," Bookman muttered to himself as he walked through the corn stalks once again.

"I know…" he sighed tiredly back.

**pqpq**

Getting through the field took longer than it should have, and once on the edge of the crop, Bookman caught sight of a few other figures moving in the dark ahead of him. Ducking back into cover, he knelt down in the dark between two stalks and watched.

"We gotta go!" someone whispered urgently: male.

"We can't just leave!" a person said quietly back: female.

"We have to. If those goons come back, they're gonna do more than—"

"I know that! But…"

"We can't wait anymore!"

The corn a few rows over from Bookman rustled and he went rigid and still. The two people ducked down into the grass to hide.

"Rebecca! Vikas!" a voice whispered, sounding frightened.

"Ariel?" asked the girl in the grass.

A figure ran from the field to the grass.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. They followed me; I had to lose them somehow…Micah is still stuck in there somewhere…we got separated…"

"It's okay. We'll wait, then we're leaving. We have a cart. We can make it across the Prut before dawn if we hurry."

Bookman's interest piqued. They had a cart, which was much faster travel than on foot. But much more noticeable than walking…Lavi's weak breathing against him made up his mind for him. He stood up, making a point of creating a little noise, though he still remained concealed by the crop around them.

"Shh!"

"Will you take passengers?" Bookman asked, hating himself that he had to ask such a thing.

"Who goes there?"

"Just another refugee like yourself."

"We don't give rides to people we don't know."

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," Bookman explained, to them or himself, he was uncertain. "My grandson has been shot. He needs medical attention."

There was some hushed whispering between them that Bookman couldn't make out, before the male said: "Well, come over here then."

Bookman stepped cautiously out of the grass and hurried through the clearing before ducking into the low grass. Three pairs of eyes looked at him. They were only teenagers, but they had very determined faces. They wore red bands on their arms.

"Yeah, what of it?" the boy—Vikas—asked roughly, seeing what Bookman was looking at.

"The Socialist movement was the cause of today's events?" Bookman asked.

Socialism was that rising trend, what with Karl Marx and that Engels fellow causing a stir throughout Europe with their theories. Bookman had read both _Das Kapital_ and _The Communist Manifesto_, but found nothing of real merit in it. Although the system was a good concept, it, like pure communism, was as impossible as it was improbable.

"Damn right. If only we could develop a system more like what Marx wrote about…" said one of the girls; the blonde one who looked as angry as she sounded: the one they called Ariel.

"Our party was trying to merely convince the people that building trade unions here would be a wise decision," said Vikas, his eyes scanning the field for either his friend or the enemy.

Bookman had read in the paper earlier that day about the merging between the Social Democratic Worker's Party of Germany merging with Lassalle's General German Worker's Association a few months back, which accounted for the rise in the number of those supporting the cause and striving toward all the "good things" that socialism had to offer. Bookman knew that it wouldn't work; people were too greedy to lie by a code of mutual sharing and in which no one made profit.

"But then all hell broke loose. They didn't have to _shoot_ at us," said the other girl, this one looking younger and more frightened than the other two, her brown hair matted with dirt: Rebecca.

"What system do you live under?" George asked, looking back at Bookman.

"I live under none. I do not answer to any king or any government," Bookman replied, as it was true, being a wanderer, he had no home, and therefore no government to answer to.

"You're one of those anarchists, aren't you?" asked the angry girl; she thrust out her hand. "Nice to see a friend out here."

Bookman shook her hand, though he was no anarchist, he really did need the ride. Lavi was shaking against him, his skin frigid.

"Dammit, where's Micah?" Vikas asked, still searching for their friend.

"Your party is small," Bookman said. "How many did you come with?"

"Thirty-seven," replied Rebecca, eyes wide. "We're the only ones left…we think…"

"I'm sure there's more of us left, they just ran the wrong way when those idiots started shooting," said the other girl, patting her on the back, actually looking less angry when she did so.

Footsteps sounded from the field and a man stumbled out toward them, egged on by Vikas's waving hand.

"Fucking capitalist pigs shot me!" Micah ground out, flopping beside them in the grass, cradling his arm.

The girls made a fuss over him, helping him to a stand so they could make their way to the hidden cart, apparently left under a bridge nearby. Micah made a lot of noise about his injury; something that was steadily driving Bookman to the edge of his patience.

"My grandson has a wound much worse than yours and he's much quieter," Bookman said coldly, making Micah regard him angrily, but at least he was silent after that.

Upon arriving at the wagon, the two girls and Micah got into the back, Vikas going up front to steer. Bookman joined the three in the back.

"So who the fuck are you?" asked Micah as the girls tended to his wound, his hand reaching for something in his coat pocket.

"No one," Bookman answered. "Just looking for a ride."

"He's for the party; it's okay," said the scared girl hastily and his hand retreated from his pocket.

Judging from the shape, he had a firearm stored there.

"Whatever you say," he muttered, looking away.

The cart began moving. After moving along by the river for a while, they entered a main road. Lavi was hot against his shoulder, his breathing turning to panting. His fever had spiked and, when open, that one green eye looked so dark that it almost appeared black. Gently as possible, Bookman moved Lavi so that he could examine him better, wary of the musty hay that covered the old wood of the cart. He didn't take the bandage off, but moved it for a few seconds to look at the wound. It had stopped bleeding for the most part, but looked raised and swollen. Infected.

"_Fuck_," Bookman swore.

And it might have been the fact that the moon wasn't the best light, but Bookman could have sworn that the skin was turning blackish purple. If that was the case then this was worse than he thought. Blood poisoning was something you didn't mess around with.

"…g-gramps…"

Lavi was looking up at him with one dark eye, his body shivering. Bookman removed his cloak and wrapped Lavi in it, careful when moving him into his lap again. His apprentice curled up there, seeking more warmth, his body suffering the effects of the infection.

"You'll be all right, just be still," Bookman told him, taking his pulse.

His heart rate was fast. Way too fast. Tachycardia. It was confirmed now: Lavi was septic.

"Th…irsty…" he said weakly against his chest.

Bookman offered him some water from the flask at his hip, making sure Lavi got enough, but also saving as much as he could for later. If this was truly septicemia, then he'd need it. Especially if they didn't get to antibiotics in time…

As if the jostling in the cart wasn't bad enough, it began to rain as well, soaking them all through in a matter of moments. Bookman tried to keep Lavi dry, but it was pointless.

"This fucking sucks," grumbled Micah.

No one said anything to that as the cart trudged along, moving slower and slower by the minute, it seemed. Lavi was shaking so badly it felt like he was having small seizures, which he might have been, for all Bookman knew.

The rain only lasted the smaller part of an hour, enough to get them wet and the road slick with mud. Within sight of the Prut, the cart got stuck.

"Shit!" Vikas swore as it began to tilt over into a ditch.

Releasing the reins and harness, Vikas let the horse bolt from them, shifting the vehicle further into the muddy ditch.

"Let's just walk the rest of the way!" shouted Rebecca over Micah's swearing.

But before any of them could even begin to do so, there were armed men all around them, holding standard issue rifles at the ready, all pointing at them. The Romanian guards that watched the checkpoint.

"You are all hereby under arrest."

Which is how Bookman, Lavi, and four teenagers ended up in a cell in a Romanian prison.

**pqpq**

"We'll be executed in the morning," said Ariel, crossing her arms as she looked through the small window above their heads.

"Well, fuck…" Micah muttered.

While they complained about the situation, Bookman looked around the poorly crafted cell for a means of escape. But all of them would be difficult, even more so with an unconscious child in his arms. However, the way the infection was coursing through his body, Bookman doubted Lavi would make it until dawn.

Although Lavi had been mostly unawares, he had moments of consciousness, and even some moments of lucidity somehow through the pain. A few hours after they had been in the cell, one of those times came.

"...ah, B..B..." Lavi tried to speak, but it sounded like he was too weak to waste his precious air.

"Don't talk," Bookman said, keeping his tone neutral.

Gently, Bookman took Lavi's thin wrist in his hand and felt for his pulse. It was too rapid to be healthy. Lavi took in a shaky breath.

"C-C-Cold," he managed to get out.

Lavi was already wrapped up in both his cloak and Bookman's. Their bags had been taken from them upon imprisonment, so Bookman could offer him nothing. It was awful how high the fever was, making Lavi shiver uncontrollably.

His strained breathing started again as the shaking got worse. Bookman gently moved Lavi to a sitting position and held the trembling body close to him. It was the least he could to for Lavi...give him some comfort before he died. With Lavi's right side against him, it allowed Lavi to look up at Bookman with his only eye. He looked tired and in a great amount of pain.

"...ah, h-hurts," Lavi said.

"It won't for much longer," Bookman replied.

He couldn't look Lavi in the eye when he said this. There was a silence. The shivering continued; that red hair clinging to Lavi's forehead with sweat. Lavi's brow furrowed a little as his fevered brain tried to figure out what was happening to him.

"D-Die...?"

Bookman looked away. Rebecca and the others looked away, trying to appear like they hadn't been listening.

"I'm sorry."

A hand weakly gripped at the front of his shirt. Bookman looked down at Lavi. His one eye was closed and there was a small, peaceful smile on his lips. Understanding. Accepting.

"..s..'kay..."

"No, it's not okay. You're going to die," Bookman said.

He didn't want his voice to sound so harsh, but it came out that way. The anger wasn't meant to be directed at Lavi. It wasn't his fault. That eye opened to look at him, half-lidded and glassy. The hand gripping the front of his shirt gave a sudden clench as Lavi struggled with a particularly tough breath.

"...eh...m..mad?"

"No. No, I'm not mad."

"...s-sad...?"

Bookman looked down; Lavi looked at him with a troubled expression. How could Lavi be worried about Bookman when it was he who was going to die? And would he despair to know that Bookman would not mourn him once he passed? Bookman brushed Lavi's bangs away from his forehead; he was still burning up. His small, shaking shoulders slumped.

"S...s-s...sorry..."

"It's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

The left eye fluttered closed and pained expression came to his face. But he didn't cry. Apparently the box that read TEARS hadn't broken, despite the fact that COMFORT had been. But Bookman couldn't hold that against Lavi, no matter how much he knew, that as a Bookman he should.

"P-Pan...da-ji...ji?"

Bookman hated being called that. Ensio and a few of the children had come up with the nickname when they were sailing across the Black Sea. The teasing had been a part of Ensio's personality, but that didn't mean Bookman didn't smack him upside the head a few times for his disrespect. Lavi knew it and Ensio knew it, but by this time the he was weak and shivering, fever-ridden and dying in Bookman's arms. Bookman decided that he would let it slide, just this once without getting angry. He let his hand stroke Lavi's damp, matted hair a little.

"What is it? You know I don't like it when you call me that," Bookman said, making sure to keep his voice soft so Lavi would know he wasn't mad at him.

"T-Thanks…" he managed to get out in one breath.

"For what?" Bookman asked.

His hand was weakly gripping at Bookman's shirt again. Lavi's left eye was trying to stay open.

"F-for…treating me...g..good…"

His weak voice was barely a whisper. He was fading. Bookman held him close, offering as much heat to his trembling apprentice as possible, stroking his hair damp hair.

"You're welcome."

**pqpq**

Huh. Wow. More than 7,000 words. I really should stop my long winded-ness. Really, I should…especially when Bookman gets all OOC on me. I can't wait to write him as more of a badass again, because badass!Bookman is awesome. But I'm going along with the character profile now, so there you go...

Swear tiem:

(1) Ai ya! dammit

(2) Ta ma de fuck me

**Next Time**: Will Lavi live (again)? Most likely, because Bookman, despite not caring, _will_ find a way to save him.

Hope you liked it, leave me a **review** if you've got the time. It lets me know you guys like it, after all, and encourages me to write more :P

**Dhampir72**


	23. Return and Escape

**Author's Note**: Thanks for all the love, you guys. It makes me actually want to write, despite being tired as hell. But I'm sure my face was humorous when I actually looked at the stats on this story: 79 people favorited this and 81 people have it on their alerts list. I was like "No WAI! people like this?!"

**pqpq**

The darkness only seemed to get darker as the hours dragged on. Lavi had been unconscious for a while, his breath almost non-existent despite the rapid heart rate he supported. His small fingers were still clenched around a bit of Bookman's shirt and some of the old man's hair that had fallen limply around his shoulders because of the earlier rain. On any other given occasion, Bookman would have broken the person's hand that touched his hair (as he didn't have much left and didn't want to jeopardize losing anymore), but Lavi's ragged little breaths and the way he could almost feel that small body dying…well, Bookman let it pass.

Four pairs of eyes watched them, either out of curiosity or out of boredom, Bookman wasn't sure. They were at least silent, huddled at the opposite corner of the cell, knees to their chests like they were suffering something awful. It made Bookman almost angry, reminding him of humans and their selfishness. Here, a young child's life was being drained away and they could only think of themselves; natural human instinct, the unbiased part of him spoke, as watching someone die always reminded a person of their own mortality. To Bookman, it only reminded him of bleak darkness and emptiness. And looking down at Lavi he could only think of what a _waste_ it was.

No emotion, however. No biased reasoning. No feeling at all. Bookman was good at it and could keep himself from thinking too many thoughts that might cause him to show any more compassion to the youth he still cradled in his arms. He looked at it from the point of view of nature, in which everything eventually died. That was just the way it worked. To Bookman's eye, he considered Lavi's situation to be similar to that of a rabbit that has been caught in a trap. It panicked, bled, and then exhausted itself, its heart beating so fast from the attempts to free its injured body from the steel clamp around it that the organ finally collapsed on itself. That's what was going to happen; it was just a matter of how much time Lavi's heart had before it got tired of pushing the poison through his bloodstream and just gave up all together.

In the meantime, Bookman kept him as upright as possible, trying to keep the strain off said organ, under some impression—some delusion—that Lavi might get better, although he knew it was impossible. Even at this point, Bookman knew antibiotics couldn't do anything, as the infection had raged too long. Even medicine wouldn't release Lavi's small body from the black grip of unrelenting death he was currently being held in. For small favors and perhaps a somewhat kinder universe, Lavi at least wasn't aware during his last few hours, sleeping in unconscious slumber against Bookman's shoulder.

Such a _waste_…

A few hours outside of dawn, three guards came into the cell, waking those who had fallen asleep. They were tall, sour-faced men, with dirty beards and faces, each holding a formidable weapon that made the women shrink back in fear.

"You," said one guard, pointing at Vikas, then Micah. "And you. Come with us."

The other guards went and collected the two men, keeping their weapons in the smalls of the prisoners' backs as they led them out of the cell. As the first guard went to follow them, his eyes strayed down to Bookman, then the child in his arms, and then he was gone as quickly as the others.

"They're gonna kill Micah and Vikas…" Rebecca murmured, looking frightened.

Ariel was silent against the wall, her knees still to her chest. Rebecca watched her and quieted as well. Bookman watched the two of them stoically.

"Isn't there anyway out of here?" Rebecca asked, leaving the question open for anyone to answer although no one did. "There has to be…"

Bookman ignored the two of them after that. It was always awkward to watch women cry. But he was spared from having to shift his attention to his pale apprentice when footsteps sounded from down the hall. Another guard came, the same one as before, scaring Rebecca and Ariel back into the shadowy recesses of the cell as he entered. But he ignored them, turning instead to Bookman, steely eyes looking over the boy in his lap.

"That child is dead," he said coldly. "I won't have him rotting in this cell. Trash pick-up is here now."

"This boy still breathes," Bookman answered, just as coldly. "You'll do best to tell your garbage collectors they'll have no load today."

Something too quick to block hit the side of Bookman's head, stunning him for several moments, vision teetering dangerously on the edge of blackness. But once he recovered, the guard was gone, the cell door shut, and the room silent. Rebecca and Ariel were white-faced across from him.

Lavi was gone.

**pqpq**

About an hour before dawn, Vikas and Micah were thrown back into the cell, looking as if they had been put through hell, clothes torn and dirty, covered in blood and grime.

"Bastards…" Micah muttered, his hands bloody. "Ripped my fucking nails off…"

"They…tortured you?" Rebecca asked, her voice rather high towards the end.

"Only for a little while," Vikas said, dragging himself toward her. "They were waiting for people running from the riot…all the cells in this place are filled with others…"

"Speaking of others…" Micah grumbled, sitting himself up against the wall as Vikas made himself comfortable on Rebecca's lap. "Where the hell is that kid of yours, old man?"

"Shh!" Rebecca hushed him, a minute too late.

"Oh, the brat finally kicked it, huh? All the better, I say," Micah said nonchalantly, crossing his arms.

"How can you say that?" hissed Rebecca; even the stone-faced, hard-ass Ariel punched Micah in the arm for being so insensitive.

"You ain't never seen a kid get hung, have you?" asked Micah, expression dark. "They ain't heavy enough to die right out. It's a slow death. A God's mercy, if you ask me."

Everyone fell into an uneasy silence, watching as the sky outside began to get lighter. Bookman tried not to think of wherever Lavi had been left to die, images flashing before his eyes of that too thin, too pale boy lying broken and frightened somewhere dirty, dark, and cold until he finally stopped breathing. He pushed that out of his mind. Lavi was dead either way. It was Bookman's main priority to get himself out of this situation alive.

Dawn was nearly there. Every sound echoed loudly, making one of the teens twitch nervously while looking over their shoulder; looking for the guard that would surely be coming to lead them to the gallows. But no guard came, even as golden light began to filter in through the dirty window high above them.

"I wonder what's…taking so long…" Rebecca mused aloud.

"I dunno…probably all the others that we saw," Micah muttered, Ariel stirring awake on his shoulder.

They were sitting in stillness, quiet, staring at nothing and at everything, waiting for their deaths. Even the few ways that Bookman thought they could escape proved to be humanly impossible and so he figured he would rely on a hand-to-hand fighting method once they were removed from the cell. After all, the guards wouldn't be expecting a fight from an old man…

The door was thrown open suddenly, breaking all silence and thought, with the sound of the heavy wood ricocheting off the wall.

"What the f—" Micah's swear was cut off.

There was a loud sound, similar to that of an explosion, followed by noxious fumes that began to pervade the small cell. The entire room turned a slightly yellowish color as the odorous smell wafted their way as the noises turning into a loud crackling and popping, almost like firecrackers.

"Ugh, what's that _smell_?" asked Ariel, covering up her nose with the sleeve of her shirt

"It's like...rotting meat or..._something_," was Vikas's guess as he pulled the collar of his jacket up to cover his nose and mouth.

Out of the yellowish fog, a few figures with bandanas and scarves covering the lower halves of their faces came running towards their cell.

"Vikas, are you in there?" asked a voice that approached the bars.

It was a man with dark hair and eyes, very similar to that appearance of Vikas. The said man inside the cell with them rose at the sight of the other who called his name.

"Demetri, you're all right?" Vikas asked.

As the two began speaking in fast Slavic, a smaller figure moved closer, toward where Bookman sat beside the bars. The strange smog wasn't so thick that the figure's hair color went unnoticed. Bookman managed to keep his expression from looking completely surprised, although some of the shock was still apparent on his face as he stared at his apprentice.

"Hello!" Lavi greeted him, most likely grinning underneath the cloth that covered the lower part of his face.

Bookman had half a mind to slap him for making him worry—for looking so ridiculous.

"You should put this on or else the smell will make you puke," Lavi said, slipping a hand in easily through the bars. Bookman accepted the long strip of cloth and quickly tied it over his nose and mouth.

"…and a few others managed to escape," Demetri was answering one of Vikas' questions, casting wary glances towards the door. "We don't have much time; let's get you out of there. Is this door like the others?"

This question was directed at Lavi, who stepped back and looked at the bars that made up the cell. He nodded, pointing at certain parts of it.

"All right then. You two; help me," Demetri said to the men behind him.

Together they held the bars as the flaking, rusty hinges were forcefully pulled out and the heavy door was moved to the side, leaving about a foot of a gap for those inside the cell to leave through.

"Come now, let us go," Demetri said to those in the cell. Then he turned to Lavi and shook his hand. "Thank you for your help."

"And thanks for yours," Lavi answered, returning the bow that Demetri offered him. Then the two men, Demetri, and the four teenagers fled through the fog and out the door. That left Lavi and two others with Bookman: a short boy, maybe nine or ten, and another boy of about sixteen. The older boy handed Bookman the pack that had been taken from him upon imprisonment and he quickly put it on after Lavi had returned his cloak.

"Let's go, we know a way out," he said, heading toward the door. "Dan, is th' boat still there?"

"Yeah," replied Dan, "we'll be real safe at th' market crossin' if we're fast."

Bookman and Lavi hurried after them, following them through the yellow-tinted haze that seemed to be everywhere. It made Bookman's eyes water.

"We're real lucky ya had those things," Dan said to Lavi as they stepped over guards that had passed out because of the fumes. "Or else I think we'd all been hanged this mornin'."

"An' poor Mum. What would she think?" added the older one, checking to make sure the corridor was clear before they rushed down it and out into the sunshine. Outside there was mass pandemonium. Chickens were everywhere, distracting townspeople and the remaining guards around the prison with their loud clucking and flapping.

"What…the…" Bookman said, not knowing what else to say at the sight that was quite familiar.

"_Long_ story," Lavi answered quickly.

It was simple to escape notice with all of this going on, Bookman and Lavi following the two boys through the crowd. They stayed toward the edges buildings, keeping to shadow, the hoods of all their cloaks pulled up to keep their identities somewhat concealed. Dan turned at an alley, making all of them follow. Passing open doorways and children playing, along with a few less than reputable places, they began moving down, the sun disappearing as they entered a dark underground. Their hoods were dropped. The sound of a river rushing reached Bookman's ears.

"The Prut?" Bookman asked.

"Part of it," answered the older boy.

There was barely any light, enough for Bookman to see the glitter of the water rushing by them and the vibrant red of Lavi's hair, but nothing else. The boys ahead of them didn't trip, knowing the way probably very well. Lavi stumbled a little, enough to alert Bookman of strange dips or rises in the brick beneath his feet so he didn't look like an idiot falling.

"Dan, light that lantern, won't ya?"

After a few minutes of walking, they stopped and a match was lit, put inside a lantern, and then there was a dull, golden light that illuminated the dark space rather well. With the light, Bookman could see they were in an old, brick cavern, most likely a sewer system. It didn't smell bad, or at least it didn't smell bad in comparison to what they had encountered back in the prison. Beside the narrow pathway they stood on, there were a few wooden boats. Dan hooked the lantern onto a protruding piece of iron at the prow of one of them while the older boy prepared for their departure, untying a thick piece of rope from a bar on the near wall.

"We make good on our promises," said the older boy to Bookman and Lavi. "So get in an' we'll get ya outta here."

They complied, stepping over a few sacks of some kind of fruit or vegetable, and waited in the boat for them, Bookman presuming Lavi would tell him the details of this arrangement once they were far from Ungheni.

"I presumed you dead," Bookman said, conversationally toward Lavi.

"That's funny. So did I," Lavi answered, tugging down his face mask, revealing a slight grin. "Myself, I mean." Although he still looked unhealthily pale, Lavi was able to walk and talk under his own strength, which was quite something compared to the nearly-dead state he had been in a few hours earlier.

"And what, pray tell, did you do to so narrowly avoid this occurrence?" Bookman asked. He watched as Lavi's eye glanced over at the two boys as they climbed into the boat with them before setting off.

"Let's just say…I had a Protector," Lavi said, pulling up the flap of his bag slightly. Using that as a sort of shield so the other boys couldn't see what it was, Lavi pulled out a small glass vial to show Bookman quickly. And then it made sense: Tarak's gift from the Giving had been an elixir that could cure any poison. When he had denounced his apprenticeship, the elixir had been given to Lavi. How ironic that Tarak's alias should prove to be so fitting.

"Wait…" Bookman said, his tired brain finally catching up with everything. "You had that the entire time and could have spared yourself some pain, but you did not?"

"Well…" Lavi looked over at the two brothers who were deep in low conversation with one another. "In my defense, I wasn't really all there, if you get my drift. I didn't know it'd work… Lucky for me I was dying of poison, huh? It was kind of like a last-shot sort of thing."

Bookman truly wanted to hit Lavi. And here he had been so concerned—no, no he hadn't been concerned, merely…_inconvenienced_ by Lavi's predicament.

"Oh and…since I'm alive, I need to ask you not to kill me…" Lavi said, smiling a little nervously. It was the same smile the Ensio wore when he did something bad that would most likely end up with Bookman reprimanding him in some way.

"I'm not making any promises," Bookman answered.

"Oh, c'mon. Aren't you glad I'm alive?" Lavi asked, more nervous than ever.

"It depends," Bookman replied.

"That's cold."

"If you prefer, I could just say I'm not glad you're alive."

"Frigid."

"Indeed."

"You're gonna be pissed too, this is shit," Lavi muttered, putting his hands in front of himself defensively. "Now, just remember that I was completely unconscious when this happened and I didn't _mean_ to do it so you really _shouldn't_ be mad or want to cause me any sort of bodily harm."

"No promises, remember."

"Haha, yeah…" Lavi said, nervously scratching the back of his neck, a nervous habit that Ensio had developed. Lavi reached into his bag again with something like trepidation on his face. "Now…I'm really, really sorry…_really_…" Lavi said as he pulled something out of his bag. Bookman's expression became murderous when he saw it was a very thick bundle of hair. Gray hair. _His_ hair. "Really sorry, remember. Completely unconscious when it happened, remember?"

"I'm…going to kill you," Bookman said dangerously, a vein throbbing in his forehead.

"W-What? I mean, I'm really sorry!" Lavi said, putting his arms over his head to shield himself.

"You…pulled it out. My _hair_. I am definitely going to kill you. Or at least maim you beyond all recognition"

"B-But…! Wh-What's the big deal?" Lavi asked, but must have seen how serious the situation was by Bookman's expression and he immediately shut up, moving backwards in his seat. The big deal was that, unlike his apprentice, Bookman didn't _have_ very much hair to spare. And what Lavi had yanked out was probably a few years worth of work…No wonder Bookman's head was hurting and stinging. If not from the blow the guard gave him, from the fact that almost half his hair had been ripped from his head. "I-I-I mean to say that you look very, um, manly, yeah, _manly_ just the way you are!"

Bookman cuffed him upside the head, sending him crashing face first to the ground.

"Hey, try not to break our boat, okay?" Dan said, glaring at Bookman and then at Lavi, whose chin might have been permanently implanted in the floor.

"Is this…how you treat the injured?!" Lavi cried from under the wood bench seat. "And I _saved_ you, too! So ungrateful!"

But Bookman was too busy running his fingers through whatever remained of his hair to pay attention to him, muttering things to himself about how the amount had been severely reduced. Lavi stayed on the floor under the seat, out of the way of Bookman's fists. And although Bookman was extremely angry because the turn of events had left him with very little on top, he couldn't ignore the fact that Lavi _had_ come back for him. Bookman touched his cloak, fingertips turning crimson upon meeting one of the saturated bloodstains. He would never admit that he didn't want Lavi to die (although now he wasn't adverse to the concept of corporeal punishment), convincing himself that it was merely for professional reasons.

"Come here," Bookman said. Lavi looked skeptical, unsure of what to make of Bookman's usual stoic tone. But after a moment of deliberation, Lavi moved out from under the seat and came closer to the old man, eye downcast in apology. "How is your wound?"

Lavi appeared surprised at the sudden change of subject and touched his side, lifting the corner of his shirt to look at it. The bandage was soaked through, his right hip and thigh dyed dark red. Lavi kept it hidden from the boys watching them curiously by keeping his cloak covering himself. "S'fine…" he murmured, looking down and away as if ashamed.

"It's not fine when you're still bleeding," Bookman said, searching for some gauze in his pack. Upon securing some, he had Lavi sit next to him so that he could treat the injury. The two brothers watched with open curiosity as Bookman peeled back the old padding to reveal the bleeding wound. Lavi did well to not flinch away from Bookman's hands and he made neither a sound nor a wince during the entire time his wound was bound tightly. It seemed that the concoction that could cure any poison did nothing for clotting, which tended to be a bad thing, when curing the malady only left the patient to bleed to death shortly after receiving a remedy.

"Sooooo, what happened?" asked Dan, sounding morbidly interested.

"Shut up, Dan! It ain't none of our business," his brother said, smacking him on the head. "'member our deal? No questions!"

"Ow! Enric! That hurt!" Dan whined, rubbing his head.

"I was in a bar fight," Lavi said, grinning a little at the joke.

"Whooooa, really?" Dan asked, eyes wide.

"Oh, yeah. You should see the _other_ guy," Lavi answered, making Enric smirk at him over his younger brother's shoulder.

"Sorry. He's young an' stupid," Enric said, in defense of his brother's idiocy.

"Hey! Am not!" Dan said, looking affronted.

The brothers squabbled back and forth for a little while in a somewhat comedic way. Lavi settled down on the floor of the boat by Bookman's left knee while they argued. The river sped up around this time and the boat moved faster through the underground cavern that soon the darkness gave way to light and they were suddenly above ground again. Clear blue skies greeted them, the sun blinding their eyes that had been accustomed to the limited light that had been down below. The city was far behind them, faint shapes on the horizon, and now there was nothing but wide plains of wheat. Golden strands rippled in the balmy breeze.

"Where are we headed?" Bookman inquired.

"We'll take ya as far as Bereşti Tazlău, but no farther," Enric answered. "It's good far enough from Ungheni that ya shouldn't have no trouble with th' police."

Bereşti Tazlău was a commune in Romania alongside the Prut. It was dreadfully rural for miles around; a place where Bookman and Lavi could easily disappear…

"It is much appreciated," Bookman said.

"It ain't no problem. After all," Enric said, nodding at Lavi, "he was th' one who did _us_ a favor. If he hadn't gotten us outta there, our poor mum would've had a fit. An' would've been shamed too, on top of it."

"Why is that?" Bookman asked.

"Oi, look around. We're smugglers, can't ya tell?" Enric asked. "Doesn't matter what th' cargo; we'll smuggle it into or out of th' city, for a price, of course."

"Smugglers," Bookman repeated, looking at the both of them. "At such a young age?"

"Not a lot of work 'round here," Enric said, with a guilty shrug. "It's just me, me brother, me little sis, an' me mum. We was going to lose th' farm. This was th' only way to keep that from happen'n. Not th' best job in th' world, but it gets us by, which is what we need, so I ain't one to argue."

"Where did you come by this trade?" Bookman asked.

"We met a few others who do what we do, but go different routes. We got th' job when we found our neighbor friend doin' it. He showed us th' ropes. Good thing, too, because he ended up on th' run from some debt collectors. We got his clients an' his equipment."

Enric patted the boat affectionately. Dan was leaning over the side with his fingers in the water, most likely teasing the fish. Now without hoods or darkness, Bookman could see how much they looked alike; both with dark brown hair and eyes, the same bone structure in the cheeks and jaw, and the same hands as well.

"A lucky break, I'm sure," Bookman said.

"Aye, today was our lucky break, too," Enric said, crossing his arms. "Never would've thought that we'd get out of there without ropes 'round our necks."

Dan cringed and kicked Enric in the ankle.

"Don't talk like that. It ain't makin' me feel no safer," Dan frowned at his brother.

"How did you end up in prison? Don't tell me you were caught," Bookman said, making a gesture to indicate the boat.

"No, no. Somethin' much dumber than that. Like, Enric bein' stupid in th' market o'er whatsername?" Dan said, rolling his eyes and looking over at his older sibling, who blushed red.

"I-I-I…" Enric stuttered.

"An' he had ta go an' make a scene ta impress 'er an' before ya knowit, we're in a prison cell," Dan said, crossing his arms.

"I-I just thought she'd like a flower…"

"Ya didn't have ta go an' not pay for it! 'Specially when th' police was all crazy 'cause of th' riot o'er th' river!"

"Sh-Shut up!"

And so they went back to squabbling for a little while longer. But once Enric got Dan in a headlock, it was all over.

"So, how'dya guys en' up in th' pen?" Dan asked, only to be squeezed harder by Enric.

"We were brought in after escaping the riot in Ungheni," Bookman answered truthfully, making both brothers stare at him with open mouths.

"Ya were in th' riot o'er there? Lucky ya made it out alive; we heard it was bad. Real bad. Set fire to th' fields down an' everything tryin' to get th' people responsible," said Enric. "We heard it from th' people next to us. They were all burned up…"

Uneasy silence fell over them. Enric released Dan and grabbed an oar, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Er, um, river gets a bit rough here, so hold on," he said, using the paddle to steer them over or around rocks that peeked through the rushing water's surface.

"Hey! Ya okay?" Dan asked, prodding Lavi.

"Fine…" came Lavi's forced-sounding reply.

"Ya sure? Ya look bad," Dan said.

"…don't like boats…" was the quiet answer.

Dan didn't let Lavi go with just that, pestering him for the remaining journey through the rough patch of river. It soon turned smooth again and Enric put the oar down beside him, looking up at the sky and then at the river bank.

"Won't be long now," he told Bookman.

"Mum's gonna be maaaad," Dan said, stopping torturing Lavi for the time being. "We was gone all night!"

"You're right. I wonder what lie we can tell her?" Enric replied, putting a finger to his chin.

While they thought, every now and then coming up with an insanely ridiculous idea, Bookman looked down at Lavi who was resting against the older man's knee tiredly. The adrenaline had most likely worn off, leaving him exhausted. Finding a quiet place to rest for the night wouldn't be too difficult, as there was plenty of open field they could occupy without being seen. And as it was nearing the end of July, it would be warm. The sky said no rain, which made for ideal conditions.

"An' here we are," Enric said, as he began steering the boat towards the shore. Bookman would have missed it if he hadn't been looking: two logs sticking up straight out of the water. Enric navigated the boat between them and threw the rope around the two poles. There was another pole on the bank which he also tied down to keep the boat from being washed away by the current.

"It must be hard to get back and forth between here and the city," Bookman remarked, looking at the fast moving river.

"Yeah, but it ain't so bad. Ya do all th' hard work goin' an' then th' way home is simple as pie," Enric replied, as Dan hopped off the boat and onto the shore.

"Mm! Pie! I hope Mum made some!" he said, twittering excitedly.

"Pie's th' least of yer worries. Let's hope she let's us live, yeah?" Enric said, disembarking as well.

As Dan pouted and Enric pulled one of the vegetable sacks out of the boat, Bookman nudged Lavi awake to get him to move. He did so without speaking and without complaint, although rather slowly. Bookman could tell he was disoriented by the way he could barely keep his balance. Once on land, Lavi sat down on the ground. Dan began pestering Lavi once more as Bookman was getting off the boat.

"Wooow, ya really hate boats, don'tchya?" Dan said, observing Lavi's state. "Ya look a lil' seasick. Ya sure yer okay?"

Off the boat, Bookman could see what Dan meant: Lavi was dangerously pale, his one bottle-green eye so glassy it was almost shining in the mid-morning light.

"Hey, is he okay?" Dan asked, pointing at Lavi, as if Bookman didn't know whom he was referring to.

"M'fine," Lavi said. "Jus'tired."

Ignoring him, Bookman knelt down and made Lavi recline back against his knee so he could look at the wound again. The gauze was already colored red, making Bookman curse silently to himself. Like most cures to poison, the reaction was the thinning of the blood. Thin blood ran faster. That, on top of adrenaline, made the blood run even faster, making the body slow to clot. That explained why the wound that should have closed hours ago hadn't yet.

"O-Our farm ain't far," Enric said, looking nervous and jittery at the sight of the wound. "If ya can carry him, me brother an' sis an' me'll share a room so ya can have a place to stay."

Bookman was going to decline, as it would be better for them to move on. But if Lavi was in this condition, he was going to need shelter to heal faster. And the promise of a bed sounded very persuasive. Not to mention Lavi's forehead and hands were cold.

"It really ain't no problem. Maybe Mum will give us a break, yeah?" Enric said, the last part to Dan, who looked pleased with the idea.

"Yeah, yeah! An' we can show ya th' farm an' ev'rythin'!" Dan added, sounding excited despite the situation. But then he must have noticed how pale Lavi really was and how much he was bleeding and how he was barely conscious…"If he's really this bad, I don't wanna see th' other guy…"

Bookman hooked his arm under Lavi's knees after he had secured the bandage back in place. Supporting his back and lifting him up, Bookman followed the two brothers through the waist high (more like shoulder high on Bookman) wheat. Golden stalks parted after ten or so minutes of walking to reveal a small farm house, brick and mortar and wood, sagging to one side with age. A few more sad-looking structures were around the house: a chicken coop, stable, pigpen. A huge garden was planted on one side of the house. A little girl with brown cropped hair was collecting tomatoes from a giant plant there. She dropped her basket when she saw them.

"Ada, don't—" but before Dan could finish she started yelling.

"Mum! Mum! Dan an' Enric're home!" Ada shouted, making the back door swing open with such force, Bookman thought it might fly off the hinges. A middle-aged woman bustled out, flowered babushka on her head and with a ladle in her hand.

"It's about time ya came back! Where've ya been? I been worried sick about ya! This is how ya treat yer mum? Makin' her worry all night long, wonderin' if yer dead or not!" she immediately started raving, making Enric and Dan recoil a little from the sound of her voice.

"We're sorry, Mum, we didn't mean nothin' like that," Enric said, trying to pacify her with a calm voice.

"Well whether ya did or ya didn't, ya did an' I outta disown th' both of ya!" she said, aiming the ladle at Enric's chest. It missed him and hit Dan right in the forehead. Ignoring Dan's small whimpers ("Why, mum, whyyy?") she continued: "Makin' me worry like that when all them riots is goin' on now!"

"That's just it, Mum. All them riots got us stuck in Ungheni. They didn't want people escapin' so they kept everyone in th' city overnight," Enric lied easily. She looked like she wouldn't believe him, so Bookman stepped in to aide him.

"The boy speaks the truth. We were all kept against our will while the police tried to deal with the escaped rioters that crossed the border last night illegally," Bookman said, attempted to help their case. She looked at him, as if just noticing his presence, and then looked suddenly flustered, smoothing her hand over her dress and scarf.

"O-Oh, I didn't know ya brought friends home with ya," she said to her sons, then looked at Bookman and continued with a courteous voice: "Please come in an' rest a while. Ya look like ya need it."

Bookman gave her a little bow of thanks and followed her into the house, catching Enric and Dan's high-five of victory over tricking their own mother. Ada ran ahead of them, only glancing at Bookman and Lavi curiously for a second before disappearing up a flight of narrow, rickety stairs. The woman led them into a room that served as the kitchen, where it was stiflingly hot and the ceiling was so low Enric had to crouch. For once Bookman was glad of his height.

"I'll get a room fer ya, just a moment," she said to Bookman, leaving them to sit down. He caught her glance at him one more time before she left, and the old man hoped it wasn't because she was attracted to him in any way. His fears were verified when Dan and Enric started sniggering.

"I think Mum likes ya," Enric said in a teasing tone from his seat at the small round table in the center of the room. Bookman felt his eye twitch, even more so when Lavi's shoulders started to shake with silent laughter.

"Ewww! Gross!" Dan added, making a disgusted face. Lavi's whole body was trembling with quiet amusement. Bookman promptly dropped his apprentice on the floor and made his way over to the nearest chair to sit down.

"O-Ow…! What was that for?!" Lavi whined weakly, curling up fetal-like on the ground in pain.

"If you have enough energy to laugh, you have enough energy to walk," Bookman replied, annoyed and Lavi made a pathetic face back at him. "And stop acting like a martyr; it wasn't that far of a drop."

"Love, love, love!" Enric was singing, and that made Lavi curl up further, shaking with laughter again.

"It's…so funny! Ah, it hurts…so bad…" Lavi panted out between breaths, gritting his teeth against the pain as he shook with near-hysteria.

"I feel no pity for you," Bookman said dryly, wondering if he'd be allowed to smoke, jittery for some tobacco after the last twenty-four hours he'd had.

"Mum can't like ya! Yer too _old_," Dan said, wrinkling his nose at Bookman, who suddenly wondered if he was allowed to hit someone else's child for impertinence. His age was a touchy subject, after all. At least Lavi had the presence of mind to not laugh at that one. Either that or he had passed out from blood-loss. _All the better_, Bookman thought, remembering why he hated children to begin with.

"My age aside, I implore you not to worry, as I have no…_interest_ in your mother," Bookman replied, as politely as he could. A weak chuckle from the floor let Bookman know that his apprentice hadn't bled out yet.

"Ah…oh, it hurts…so funny…owww…" Lavi was mumbling as he laughed weakly, most likely deliriously.

Ada came back into the room and looked at all of them, then at Lavi on the floor and ran away again. Her mother came in right after she left and the older woman looked at her sons and then at Bookman (for more than the regular amount of time required for such an act) and then at Lavi.

"Is he doin' all right?" she asked.

"He was in a bar fight!" Dan said, unhelpfully. There was an awkward moment of silence that settled over them, in which no one knew quite what to say.

"I've cleared a room fer ya. Ain't much, but it'll do," she said, glancing unsurely at Lavi still on the floor, in a state of whimpering giggles.

"We appreciate it," Bookman said, and she immediately turned somewhat bashful.

"It wasn't no problem at all," she answered, twirling a lock of hair from under the scarf she wore over it. Bookman could have sworn he heard Enric singing under his breath again ("Love, love, love! It must be L-O-V-E, love!") but was too distracted by the woman thrusting her hand out at him in a gesture of greeting. "I'm Georgeta, by th' way."

"Iancu," Bookman answered, politely shaking her hand. She held on a few seconds too long before finally letting him go. The old man had to wonder what she saw in him: an old male covered in blood and dirt, minus a lot of hair (he sent a glare in Lavi's direction for that one) and with an obnoxious child. But women were strange, that he was certain of, and tried not to dwell on it, completely uninterested. "My grandson, Ensio." He gestured to his apprentice, who could have been somewhere between dead and unconscious at this point. "He's exhausted and had a long night. We've been traveling for days; it must have put a large strain on him," Bookman said, to cover up the reason for the delirious state of his charge.

"I get that. Walkin' makes ya tired, no doubt 'bout it," she said. "Well, we won't pester ya no more. C'mon an' I'll show ya yer room."

Bookman managed to peel Lavi up from his spot on the kitchen floor. He was quite malleable in his current predicament; easy to carry and lug up a few flights of frighteningly uneven stairs. They were shown to a small room at the top of the house. It had one window, one bed, and one dresser. The walls were fading yellow.

"We ain't fancy here. We got ourselves a washroom, but ya gotta get yer own water from th' well outside if ya wanna bath. Breakfast's at six, lunch at noon, an' supper at seven. Yer welcome to all of 'em if ya wann'em. Blankets is in th' cedar chest down th' hall. Anythin' else, ya can ask me personally," Georgeta said, backing towards the door. "An' if ya need anythin' just ask." And she smiled meaningfully at Bookman before stepping out of the room. "Rest up!" she said, before finally leaving.

After her footsteps had disappeared down the hall, Bookman deemed it safe to move about, and did so quietly in fear that she might come back up to check on them. Although they were both dirty and covered in blood and who-knew what else, Bookman laid Lavi down on the clean sheets, glad they were dark in color. Was it possible for this child to look any more pathetic than he already did? In the mid-morning light that shone in through the window, Bookman could distinguish the blood from the dirt, finding there to be more crimson than anything else. And of course, it all looked much more defined against such fair skin. There were bruises too. As if that wasn't bad enough, Bookman could see the roughed up cast around Lavi's left wrist, reminding him of the injuries that Lavi had acquired back in Qandahar that he was still trying to heal from. No luck, that was for sure. _I know_, was Lavi's sighed whisper from the corner of his mind.

"She's…creepy…" Lavi murmured, his eye still closed. Bookman shook his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts as he silently agreed with his half-conscious apprentice.

"But giving us shelter, so that has to be put aside," Bookman said, wanting nothing more than to pull the curtains shut so that the light wasn't so blinding and then hunker down to sleep for three days without moving. He settled for putting his pack down and searching for more bandages.

"Still…" Lavi yawned, turning over on his left side slightly. "…she's creepy…"

"We've established this already," Bookman said, putting some of the supplies on the bedside table. The yawn was contagious, no matter how much Bookman tried to conceal it. After all, it had been a long evening. And even though he knew that they should both bathe, sleep won out over personal hygiene, no matter how disgusting it sounded. Injuries had to be treated before anything, so Bookman moved to a stand, stretching his aching muscles, and went to sit on the bed. It was tantalizingly soft. Lavi yawned again.

"Stop that," Bookman said, biting back another of his own as he cleaned his hands with some alcohol.

"Stop what?" Lavi asked, yawning again.

"Yawning," Bookman said, drying his hands on a clean washcloth, doing his best not to fall victim to another indication that he was tired.

"Sorry…" was Lavi's murmured reply. "Bed's soft…"

"No excuses," Bookman said, peeling back the cloth from the bandaged wound on Lavi's right side. Lavi's body tensed and his head turned to the side to try and look at Bookman, but that eye patch prohibited him from seeing anything the old man was doing. "I'm just going to change the bandage." And with that knowledge, Lavi settled down and held still. The injury looked worse when it was covered in blood, but Bookman cleaned it to see how big it actually was. It was about the length of his pointer finger and the width of thimble, but looked bigger because of the irritation around it. The skin was reddish, almost appearing raw, and it was slightly raised and puffy, which was to be expected from such a wound. Bookman would have to sew it up, lest Lavi have a gaping scar directly above his right hip.

But he didn't trust himself at that moment to have steady hands, as he was tired and the bed was soft and it could wait until morning…

"I'll sew this up in the morning," Bookman said, stitching the wound temporarily with thin, butterfly strips to keep it closed until then. He then cleaned it one more time and put another clean bandage over the wound. Lavi was fast asleep, probably too exhausted to do anything more but that. It left Bookman to be the one to take off the boots that Elizaveta had given to Lavi back in the mountains. They were dirty and encrusted with who-knew what. Once they were off and Bookman had managed to ease Lavi out of his cloak without waking him, the blanket was draped over him, so far up that only a few strands of red hair were visible, poking up from under the edge of the quilt.

Taking off his own boots and cloak, Bookman closed the curtains, throwing the room into blissful darkness. And even though it was improper, Bookman laid down on the unoccupied side of the bed. It was built for two; Dan and Enric probably shared, so it wasn't like it was too small. But he was close enough to hear Lavi's soft breathing and near enough to feel the small dip in the mattress that he made with his small amount of weight. It was almost a comfort, after all that had happened. Bookman knew, even when he closed his eyes that Lavi was very much alive, and that was more than enough.

**pqpq**

So…I was going to write more…but I figured you guys just wanted an update by now. I had most of this written, but the last few parts gave me trouble…oh well!

I loved how everyone was curious as to how I was going to get Bookman and Lavi out of prison. If you notice, I used the method from Pirates of the Caribbean, just because I happened to be watching that at the time XD. However, the rest (the chickens, the stink bombs, and the firecrackers) will be explained in the next chapter. And the **next chapter** is coming out on Lavi's birthday, **August 10****th**, so look out for it! I have it almost completely done, so you're sure to get your update!

**Next Time:** "Gramps…do Bookmen have birthdays?" A sort of sweet birthday chapter for Bookman and Lavi.

Catch you guys in three days!

Reviews in the form of comments, criticism, or love, are much appreciated!

**Dhampir72**


	24. Birthdays

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the continuing support. Here's your special in-honor-of-Lavi-and-Bookman's-birthdays chapter. Sorry about the lateness (still 11:30 here, but, you know…) I had a family emergency that kind of took up my day, or else I would have had it out earlier. Sorry! But here it is! Just in time for Lavi's birthday! Enjoy (and look over any mistakes; eyes...so blurry...)!

**pqpq**

It was day again when Bookman awoke; he could tell that much by the golden light that shone in strongly where the curtain didn't quite meet the window frame. There was comfortable quiet, the faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the hallway outside being the only noise he could hear besides the sound of a gentle wind outside. But after the establishment of day and quiet, Bookman became more aware of other things as well, like the blistering temperature of the room and the heaviness of the air and the dull stinging and throbbing of recent injuries. He had no idea how long he had slept, but at least felt better than he had upon lying down, as now he didn't feel quite like death, but merely as if someone had completely beaten and stomped on his entire body. Despite feeling the pain, Bookman was at least aware and not caught in that hazy fog between exhaustion and consciousness.

Sitting up, Bookman helped himself to a glass of water from a pitcher and mug that had certainly not been there when he had fallen asleep. Although the room was terribly hot, the water was cold, condensation clinging to the pitcher. It was fresh, as if someone had just brought it up and set it down there. Bookman could only assume that it had been his redheaded apprentice, or perhaps that frightening woman that had a strange interest in him. Bookman hoped all of that had merely been a nightmare. A very, very bad nightmare.

Surveying the room, Bookman could tell that it hadn't changed much, except for a wooden chair that hadn't been there before. The chair was situated in front of the door, the top of it hooked under the doorknob, as if to keep someone out…

Besides that inconsistency, Bookman could detect nothing else that had really moved or added, despite the fact that he was alone in the room and he hadn't been upon falling asleep. Lavi's side of the bed was empty, the only thing besides the pillows and blankets being a small, patchwork rabbit that laid limply on the edge of the mattress. It was the same rabbit that River had given to Lavi as a parting gift, and Bookman looked at it, not quite knowing what to think of this childish piece of innocence beside him. Picking it up, Bookman stared at it and the rabbit stared back, the right eye hidden behind a make-shift eye patch River had crafted before giving it to Lavi. Upon lifting up the piece of black cloth, the other eye stared back at him, different in color and size from the left. The two mismatched buttons stared at him and he gazed back blankly for a moment before Bookman chalked up his lethargic behavior to the lingering effects of exhaustion.

Placing the creature back down where he found it, Bookman stiffly got up out of bed and moved toward the dresser, where a mirror hung lopsided on the wall. "Death warmed over" was a nice way of describing how he looked. Disheveled was putting it lightly and haggard was too mild of a word. But Bookman wasn't thinking about all of that, more focused on the bandage on the right left side of his head that had somehow gotten there. Peeling it back, Bookman surveyed the damage: what would have been a gaping wound if it hadn't been taken care of like it had been, the injury was about the length of his pinkie finger, but had bruised to match the size of a lemon. It was slightly raised and swollen, but it was clean and there was a thick substance over the wound that Bookman determined to be antiseptic. Just as he was replacing the padding back over the cut, he heard voices from outside through the cracked window:

"We'll only be gone a coupla hours. You gonna be alright by yaself?" asked the voice of the scary woman who Bookman recalled had "made eyes" at him.

"Yes. I'll look after the place while you're gone," came Lavi's response.

"Ya do that, now. An' look after yer granddaddy fer me, ya hear?" she said, and Lavi's laugh followed after that.

"Okay," he answered.

The conversation was followed by the sounds of a horse and a cart; Bookman peeked out from behind the curtain to see Georgeta and her daughter starting down a long dirt road away from the house. Lavi was in the yard, watching them go, until they were out of sight. His head turned to the chicken coop for a moment and then to the garden before finally Lavi was looking at the house, up at the third story window where Bookman was watching him. He looked surprised, but gave a wave and started for the inside.

Bookman moved to the door and relieved the chair of its guard duty so that Lavi could enter without trouble. He was just putting it into a corner of the room when there was a creaking noise as the curtains were pushed aside. Lavi appeared from the open window and hopped into the room, pulling the swinging glass shut behind him.

"It is called a door. Perhaps you've heard of the concept?" Bookman said, watching his apprentice brush the dust off his clothes and throw one end of the scarf around his neck over his right shoulder.

"Haha. Good morning to you, too," Lavi said, perching on the footboard of the bed. "And if you were astute enough to notice, the door was barricaded, so the window made logical sense."

He was in different clothes; ones that actually fit him better than the ones he had been wearing. They were most likely Dan's, as they were close to the same size. Still, it was strange to see Lavi in short shirt sleeves, trousers that reached only to the knees (both of which were ripped up and scabbed quite badly, something Bookman was determined to comment on later), and barefooted. Maybe it was strange because Bookman had never seen Lavi wear so little clothing at one time, or perhaps it was because now his apprentice's underweight countenance was even more apparent than usual. They were going to have to have a long talk about proper eating habits when this was all over.

"And why, pray tell, was said door barricaded? Were you fearful that the Romanian army was coming to apprehend us?" Bookman asked.

"More like a creepy woman with a strange fetish for you," Lavi answered, not even grinning, looking more disturbed than anything.

At Bookman's blank stare to that, Lavi shifted on the edge of the wooden footboard and looked around, as if he were afraid of being overheard.

"It was really weird. I woke up and she was just…in here…kind of looking at you…all…creepy-like…" Lavi said, making a face. "It was too freaky to be normal, so I started putting a chair in front of the door so she couldn't get in here and…do stuff to you…" Bookman must have looked repulsed because Lavi nodded in agreement. "Yeah. She's a creeper, most definitely. Which explains the window entry."

Bookman sat down in the chair and crossed his arms, trying to block out Georgeta from his mind, as it was enough to make even him shiver in fear. Thankfully, Lavi had prevented him from being watched and/or molested, and he was grateful for that. But he wasn't going to go and say it, as he had already been too soft as of late to go and do something like that.

"How long have we been here?" Bookman asked, moving on to the next topic.

"Four days," Lavi answered, almost making Bookman fall over in an uncharacteristic manner. Almost.

"Four days," Bookman repeated, unbelieving. But Lavi nodded in the affirmative. "That is four days too long."

"Tell me about it. _You've_ been sleeping. _I_ haven't. If it wasn't for Georgeta being such a head case, it wouldn't be half-bad," Lavi said.

"I do hope you're sulking and not telling the truth," Bookman replied.

"Wish I was. She told me to start calling her 'grandma'," Lavi said, with an almost tortured expression.

Bookman blinked. Once, then twice. Three times.

"Get your things ready; we're leaving in an hour."

**pqpq**

After Bookman had a bath (which was only possible because Lavi lugged several buckets of water up the stairs from the well outside) and got cleaned up a little more, he was ready to leave.

Back in the room, the curtains were open and afternoon sunlight filled the small space. The windows were cracked, letting in a soft breeze, but nothing that did anything for the heat of the summer outside. Looking out through the glass, he could see Lavi out in the yard standing on an upside down crate so he could hang up the sheets he had washed while Bookman had been in the bath. He was standing on tip-toe to try and reach the line, but Lavi managed to get all the bedding up and hung in a short amount of time. Within a few minutes, he was back in the house, looking a little red from the sun, but nothing too severe.

"Are we really going?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. The light from outside caught his eye strangely, making it look almost golden.

"Unfortunately not right this moment," Bookman said, moving away from the window; his shadow made Lavi's eye green again, no longer staring into the sun.

"Thought not," Lavi answered, looking unsure of what else to do or say; he played with the ends of his scarf idly. It was strange, Bookman could only think, as he observed Lavi once again, dressed in summer clothes but with a winter scarf around his neck. The two hands that were tugging the fabric around his neck were contrasting: the left bulky because of the cast he wore (rather clean now, Bookman noted, probably from scrubbing it until the dirt came off) and the right, thin and framed in black and blue.

Lavi must have followed his gaze and he too looked down at his arm, holding it up. The bruises were in the shape of fingers; a hand: Bookman's hand that had gripped Lavi's wrist to pull him through the crowd in Ungheni. And then Bookman remembered that Lavi had fallen down a few times, which accounted for the injuries on his knees.

Finally it clicked: the thing that Bookman had been forgetting. All these hints and yet, it took him this long to remember. Age and injuries were not being kind to him one bit, that was for certain.

"Your wound," Bookman said, moving over to the chair once again to sit down. He beckoned Lavi to come closer to him so he could look at it, and the boy did so without word or complaint. There was a clean dressing on it, which Bookman was glad to see; at least Lavi had been taking care of himself. Peeling it back, the old man was surprised to see that the injury had already been stitched up and was on the road to healing nicely. "Who…"

"Me," Lavi answered. "It hurt like hell, too, which is why the first couple aren't that good, but the rest are pretty straight." It was a very good job; almost as professional as Bookman's own hand. But how could Lavi do this to himself when he had never seen anyone perform this procedure?

"How did you manage this?" Bookman asked, placing the padding back over the wound so Lavi could have his waist back to himself. He seemed glad for this and moved away, looking uncomfortable with being touched.

"Well, let's just say your wallet and the side of my journal look the same now," Lavi said, producing the book to show Bookman the teeth marks. "I dunno. I think it gives it character."

"I was referring to the stitches themselves. How did you manage to do this to yourself without knowing how to? Have you read on the subject?" Bookman asked, curious. The only stitches Lavi had ever seen had been on his right arm, after he had gotten a nasty laceration in Qandahar. But he couldn't have guessed how to execute the procedure from just _looking_ at them…could he?

"Oh…I just remembered what the ones looked like here," Lavi answered, pointing to his arm, where even now there was a slightly raised, still-healing and pink scar, "and I just did it here." He pointed to his right side. "Why? Did I do it wrong?" He looked worried at the mention of it.

"Quite the contrary," Bookman said, and even though it was not the most praising thing he could have said, Lavi was practically beaming at those words. Time to take it down a notch or two: "But in the future, do not perform a procedure to yourself that you have never practiced." Even that couldn't remove the pleased look from his face.

"Okay," he said, placing the journal down on the bed beside him.

"Now it's time for you to explain to me some things we haven't discussed," Bookman said. "The first being how you managed to come to know the two we met back in Ungheni, the second: how you were able to release the other prisoners along with ourselves, and third: explain to me how you can wear this," Bookman gave a indicatory tug to one end of the scarf around Lavi's neck, "in such blasted heat."

"Well, this," Lavi said, unwinding the material around his throat, "is to cover up these." His neck was a rainbow of sickening colors, ranging from black to blue to yellow. They were worse than the ones Bookman had given to his wrist, but in the same shape as a hand. He hadn't given Lavi that injury, so who had?

"How did you manage to acquire that?" Bookman asked.

"You're a ninja, even when you sleep. I thought you were going to kill me," Lavi said, not looking surprised that Bookman didn't know he was the assailant. "You kept saying something about something being 'lessened' and 'gone' and you were really mad about it." Bookman had a feeling he knew what his conscious was so irked about, making a sour face as he ran his fingers through whatever remained of his hair. Lavi held up his hands in surrender and said: "I promise I'm totally never invading your personal bubble again."

A/N: XDDDDDDD

"Why were you invading my…space in the first place?" Bookman asked.

"You kept bleeding," Lavi said, putting his hand to his head in example of where the said injury was. Bookman now knew where the bandage came from. "Took me two tries to fix it; you know, the first time I was too busy getting strangled."

"I apologize," Bookman said, feeling slightly guilty for a moment. "Reflexes."

"Ninja reflexes," Lavi muttered, completely serious as he secured the scarf back around his neck. "So I'm wearing this because I don't want Georgeta…touching me or something…"

"Moving on," Bookman said. "You still have two remaining explanations."

"Oh, yeah…" Lavi said. "The second one will take longer to explain, so I'm going back to the first. I met Dan and Enric because they were in the cell next to me. They put all the children in one place, probably because they wanted to hang us all at once. Why get the barrels out several times a day when you can put them all out at the same time?" It was customary for children and women to stand on a barrel when being hanged, as most of the time they were too short to reach the noose. "Of course, I was kind of…er, not really there all that much, but I knew that I was somewhere different from where we were in the beginning, at least. I don't know how many others there were in there with me, but they were all bad off." Lavi's gaze dropped a little when he said this. It must have been traumatizing; being in a small enclosed space with near-corpses. "But I was lucky…or the guards were really stupid. They left everyone's confiscated things nearby and I was able to reach my bag. And like I said before, I didn't know what was wrong with me, but it felt serious, so I took that antidote. It made me function a little better so I assumed I did the right thing.

"I could hear all the kids talking about being executed at dawn. Some of them were locals here and others were from the side of the river where we were, but everyone was going to the gallows regardless. They wanted to clean out their prisons, so it was going to be a mass killing," Lavi said, his face shadowed with disgust. "Luckily the doors were like the ones I read about once in a book; all you had to do was pull out the hinges and the door would come loose. So I asked the kids if they wanted to make a deal: if they helped me find you, then I'd help them get out. Most of them ran for it, but Enric and Dan stayed. But you had to be in the very last cell we looked in, didn't you? By that time we had gotten adults to help move the doors instead of knocking them over. They said they were looking for people they had lost, so they were willing to help us out. Quid pro quo, just like you said, right?"

"You released over one hundred people," Bookman said, guessing at the number, which he judged on the size of the prison.

"It might have been over two hundred," Lavi answered, scratching the band of his eye patch nervously.

"That might be tipping the scale a little too much," Bookman said.

"But I helped them get out and they helped me find you, so isn't that enough?" Lavi asked. "I needed something I couldn't get by myself, so I used the help of other people who needed something I could give them. Isn't that the concept?"

"Yes," Bookman had to grudgingly admit that Lavi was right, he was just a little overly generous. "But next time, try with something smaller. And with people who _aren't_ criminals."

"Okay…" Lavi said, shaking his head with a grin, as he moved to put his journal away. As he opened the flap to his bag, a giant chicken appeared and assaulted him. "No! Not again!" Lavi grasped the chicken's leg with almost practiced ease and secured the flapping wings so the bird wouldn't hurt itself. Finally, it was calmed down enough to contently cluck under Lavi's arm; there were feathers all over the floor. Bookman looked at the chicken as if not knowing what to say, but then words were apparent:

"The twins," Bookman stated.

"Again," Lavi grumbled, going over to the window where he promptly pushed the chicken out onto the roof. It made its way down one side of the house until it reached the yard, where it began wandering aimlessly in search of food.

"Explain," Bookman said, motioning him to sit back on the footboard, which he did so without argument.

"Well, it sort of goes along with that second explanation… and you really can't hate on Manas and Ganesa too much, because if it wasn't for them, neither of us would be here," Lavi said.

"I doubt this," Bookman replied dryly, thinking of the idiotic twins and their schemes. It made him want to smoke.

"It's true, even if it wasn't their intention," Lavi said, bending over to grab his bag. He carefully opened it, leaning back slightly in case there was another surprise inside. When nothing came flying out at him, Lavi replaced his journal back inside and then began rummaging around for something. "I know I've got one left…oh, here it is." Lavi pulled out something round and painted yellow. It fit in his palm and had a tab on one end. Bookman had seen them in all shapes and forms on the battlefield and felt a slight tremor run through his mind and previous persona at the sight of it.

"That's a grenade," Bookman said, looking at it with trepidation ringing through all the names he had been before, but not letting that show through his normal expression.

"Well, yes and no," Lavi said, carelessly tossing it up and down with the hand not in the cast. "It was supposed to be a prank, actually."

"A prank," Bookman repeated, watching his apprentice play with a grenade like it was a toy.

"Yeah, a prank, a joke, a 'one-over' on you, as they put it," Lavi said, finally setting the explosive down on the bed as he began searching through his bag again. A few minutes later, his hand triumphantly emerged holding a crumpled piece of parchment, which he handed to Bookman. "I found that when I took the antidote. It was really convenient, so just remember that and don't get too angry…" Lavi said. It read:

_Lavi,_

_Manas here: I say you shouldn't let Bookman get away with treating you so badly. Letting a house fall on you? What kind of chap goes and let's a bloody house fall on a kid, huh? So Ganesa and I made these things nice and special for you to get him back._

_Ganesa here: We thought it'd be funny if you could pull one over on the old Bookman. So, we made these modified grenades for you. Don't worry; they're not real, but they'll surely cause a ruckus._

_Manas again: A hilarious ruckus._

_Ganesa again: An insanely hilarious ruckus._

_Manas: It'll be quite the show, trust us. All you have to do is pull the tab on the top and they'll automatically start working. We recommend wearing something over your face, because these smell awful. _

_Ganesa: They're also loud, and complete with a distraction technique. We think you'll find it amusing. _

_Manas: And hopefully use it as a means of escape, because Bookman's going to be bloody angry about it. Especially if you put a few under the bed or in the closet of wherever you're staying…_

_Ganesa: We normally wouldn't promote this sort of trouble-making, but we found it necessary. And entertaining. _

_Manas: Very entertaining._

_Ganesa: Absolutely smashing, we think, and we want you to enjoy. They were made especially for you._

_Manas: We like to call it "The Super and Completely Rational Means of Getting Even with the Bookman" plan._

_Ganesa: It was such a big deal that we named it. Hans and Bartleby say hello, too, by the way. And, while we're adding that, whatever you do, don't tell Enoch about this. We're supposed to be working on fixing the flaws of this new project we're working on—_

_Manas: But it's completely top-secret so we can't tell you about it. Anyway, use these! Three should do the trick, but we sent six in case you ever get in a bind somewhere and need a good distraction!_

_Ganesa (for the last time): All our love and support, to our little redheaded friend who survived having a house fall on him. (Manas: Seriously! Who let's that happen, huh?!) Call us again sometime._

_-Your favorite duo _

That explained a lot, such as the fumes, firecrackers, and the chickens. Well, maybe the first two; the chickens were probably just the random signature of the twins. Bookman handed the parchment back.

"Mental, the both of them," Bookman said, holding out his hand for the grenade, which Lavi begrudgingly gave him. "Good of you to forfeit this, because if you ever used one as a prank on me, you'd have much worse than a house falling on you."

"I don't doubt that," Lavi said as Bookman slipped the sphere into his bag. He didn't want to look at it or hold it, the prank bomb too close to the real thing: the things that actually killed people in war; tore through the land and through homes and through flesh…

The sound of a horse and cart reached Bookman's ears. Lavi heard it too and went to the window to look out at the yard where Georgeta and Ada were most likely returning from whatever errand they had to run out for. Bookman's apprentice ducked down when the sound got closer to the house.

"She's back…" Lavi said, glancing over at Bookman. "Now we're never gonna be able to leave…alive…"

Bookman had been a lot of places and seen many things, but the sound of that woman's voice calling from downstairs had to be one of the scariest things he'd ever encountered.

**pqpq**

"How's yer grandpa doin'?" came Georgeta's voice from the main floor.

"Better. Thanks," said Lavi.

Bookman was safely up in the room, door once again guarded by the trusty wooden chair thrust under the knob. Lavi had been sent downstairs without him.

"I saw them sheets hangin' up on th' line an' thought maybe he'd be up an' 'round, but I guess he's still mighty tired, ain't he?" Georgeta was asking.

"Er…yeah…" Lavi said, Bookman able to hear the envy in his voice.

"_Why do I have to go again?" Lavi asked, as Bookman practically shoved him out the door. _

"_Because I said so," Bookman said, trying to get the door closed, but Lavi was too fast, gripping his sleeve._

"_B-But she's scary! I'd rather face wolves again than _her_!" Lavi protested._

"_Imagine her as a wolf then," Bookman suggested, managing to get him out of the room and behind the door._

"_This is _go se crap _I tell you! After I save you and try to take care of you, only to get strangled by you and now this?! Not fair! Let me back iiiiiiin!" Lavi was whining from the other side of the door. _

"_This is part of being a Bookman, go," Bookman said._

"_Lies, all lies!" Lavi continued from the hall, but then his quiet whining stopped when footsteps were heard from a flight below them._

"_Ensio, y'alright?" came Georgeta's voice._

"_Y-yeah! I'm fine," Lavi answered as Bookman placed the chair under the door again. His voice lowered so that only Bookman could hear him. "Lucky, you_ qing wa cao de liu mang frog-humping sonofabitch_," he muttered._

"Shen me what_?" Bookman asked, anger leaking into his voice at being so insulted._

_But Lavi was already gone, trudging down the stairs to meet his fate._

And that's where Lavi was: eating dinner with the rest of the family. The plan would be that once everyone went to bed, they'd take off in the night. Bookman wrote a note while he waited, thanking them politely for their hospitality, but explaining that they had a family emergency to attend to and had to leave suddenly. It didn't take long before the sky outside faded from golden to a pinkish-orange and then finally to the purple-indigo of dusk. A knock on the door made Bookman turn to look at it, but he did not stand.

"The password is: open up or I'm eating your dinner," Lavi said from the other side. Bookman shook his head and got up slowly, stiff muscles protesting movement. As he made his way over to the door, Lavi continued: "Oh, oh, it's so good. I'm eating it and it's delicious. Nom, nom, nom…" Bookman moved the chair and opened the door to see Lavi standing there with a plate of untouched food sitting atop some folded sheets in his arms. Bookman gladly took the food, as he was starving, and let Lavi in. He put the chair back in front of the door and placed the folded bundle of sheets on the edge of the bed before flopping down on his back. They were quiet after that, listening to the sounds of the rest of the family getting ready to finish up for the day.

"Did you say goodbye?" Bookman asked.

"No need to say goodbye, right?" Lavi said, staring at the ceiling, unmoving.

"Precisely."

**pqpq**

Getting out was easy, once the family was asleep. It was as simple as cleaning the dish in the sink and leaving the letter on the table and remembering to lock the door behind them. Then it was all walking from there. Only a few hours away, hidden by the tall wheat did they stop for the night to rest. Lavi, back in his old clothes and shoes, stared with open wonder and curiosity at the stars for the longest time until Bookman told him to go to bed, as they had much more walking to do the next day.

And they did walk a lot the next day, heading West under the August sun, toward the Carpathian Mountains. Nothing but blue skies and white clouds and golden stalks for as far as the eye could see. It was hot, but Bookman wore a cap over his head and his cloak because the sun irritated the bandage over his right temple.

"So…this hidden history stuff you…_we_ do…what exactly is it?" Lavi asked, sounding interested, but most likely inquiring out of boredom. "Or am I not allowed to know?"

"You are allowed to know. After all, you are my successor. The heir to what will be your final persona: Bookman," he answered.

"That sounds ominous," Lavi mumbled from behind him.

"The buried parts of history," Bookman said, as if Lavi had not spoken, "are handed down from person to person and excluded from historical fact. This 'back story' if you will, is the history of those whose stories are not told, or in the instance in which the truth is omitted." Bookman could have sworn he heard Lavi mutter something that sounded like: "Cryptic much?" But he continued on without commenting: "More will be divulged as we go along and you will be expected to record this history from an impartial seat and with an unbiased voice. Understood?"

"Yes," Lavi replied.

Bookman was ahead of him, so the boy didn't notice his satisfied grin at the sound of such excitement in his voice.

**pqpq**

Ensio was discarded.

Some distance away from the mountain range, Bookman showed Lavi how to effectively discard a persona. It was a simple, yet tricky process that could result in unwanted effects if done incorrectly. The easiest way to describe it was to go back to the room that had been created upon the birth of the persona "Ensio". The room had retained its belongings, color, and personality. But the room was merely a vessel for everything that Ensio had experienced, an object that held a more psychological meaning to it than the supposed reality of the space. It was an entire person that Lavi had created, built upon and acted upon. Although, because it was his first, it was rather weak, and Lavi had shone through in times of dire need. But most of the time, Ensio was the present and dominating personality. Now, it was only about perfecting it…

However, Ensio had been too long a part of Lavi and Bookman feared that too long of an exposure to him could result in damage. After all, too much exposure with Rohan had made it impossible for him to be removed without the possibility of harming the base personality that "Lavi" operated under day in and out. So Bookman figured he would remove Ensio and see how Lavi reacted to it, give him a break of a week or so, and then introducing a new personality if his mental state seemed stable enough.

Back in the room, it was all about gathering everything that had to do with Ensio into the one space. Everything that was there represented something about him; a personality trait, a memory, a habit; everything. And everything would be left behind in this same, sunny room, never to be opened again. Once it was clear and everything was in order, the door was shut and closed for good. Locked.

"You will not be able to access his personality again," Bookman said. "Understand?"

"Yes," Lavi answered, tugging his scarf, looking down.

"You still remember everything that has transpired, but do you feel Ensio within your main psyche anymore?" Bookman asked.

"…no…" Lavi replied, voice small. Bookman watched him for a few moments, wondering what was going on through his mind.

"Do you feel all right?" Bookman inquired, not touching him; not wanting to. It looked like he might break if he tried.

"Fine," Lavi answered, voice stronger. He wiped at his face with his sleeve. "It just feels…empty now."

It always does.

But Bookman didn't say it aloud.

**pqpq**

"Hey, gramps."

"Hay is for horses, brat," Bookman said, hating the rapidly increasing popularity of the word 'hey'.

"Ne, gramps," Lavi reiterated, without engaging

Bookman looked over his shoulder at Lavi, who was walking at an easy pace behind him, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Well, what is it?" Bookman asked, turning his attention back to the road in front of him.

"Do Bookmen have birthdays?" Lavi inquired.

"Of course we do. The earth turns another year on us as well as everyone else," Bookman answered.

"Oh…" Lavi said. Bookman peeked at him from the corner of his eye to see the thoughtful expression still in place, Lavi's arms behind his head as he walked. It was quiet for a few moments as they continued on their journey under the blistering sun. But then Lavi made a noise to get Bookman's attention again, although the old man did not turn around to look at him, choosing instead to merely listen. "So…when's your birthday?"

"It's passed," Bookman answered; lied. His birthday, the original birthday of the day he, himself, the person was born on, was coming up in a few days. But Lavi didn't need to know that.

"No it hasn't," Lavi said, conversationally.

"And how, pray tell, do you figure that?" Bookman asked.

"I'm learning the tone you have when you lie."

"There's no tone."

"There it is. Liar."

"Boy, do you have anything better to do than annoy me?"

"I was just making conversation," Lavi said, almost as crossly as Bookman. "And I was just curious. I thought it'd be nice to know about."

"But not relevant."

"No, not necessarily so."

"Then it needs not to be discussed."

"But what if I wanted to wish you a happy birthday?"

"I would prefer if you didn't."

Lavi fell quiet after a moment, still staring up at the blue sky above them. Bookman was glad for the silence, feeling as if something too personal had been breached. But then again, what was personal anymore? Private? Bookman was beginning to learn that he was sharing everything with Lavi; building a bond between them, master to apprentice. Something that most certainly couldn't be allowed. Or could it? After all, this was the only true human experience that a Bookman was allowed to have…

"At least…you have a birthday," Lavi murmured quietly, so quietly that Bookman almost didn't hear it. But the day was hot and dry, with no wind, so his words weren't blown away before Bookman could decipher them. They were almost sad, lonely, seeking something.

"You have one as well. Everyone does," Bookman said.

"Rohan has a birthday, but I don't want his. I want my own," Lavi said, somewhat bitterly. "I don't…remember mine. The concept of celebrating another year on this earth is foreign to me,"

"And it will stay that way. You need not things such as that which are so trivial," Bookman said.

Lavi nodded in acceptance, never shortening his gait or falling behind. Bookman wouldn't be kind, he told himself. Lavi needed to learn the ways of the Bookmen and not hold anything dear. A name, a birthday, anything. Not even his mentor. Nothing except the history of the world which he was now slated to record.

"August 5th," Bookman said after a moment. Lavi stopped for a fraction of a second before resuming his pace.

"That's a nice day."

**pqpq**

On August 5th, Bookman and Lavi awoke from the night they spent in a small inn, fifty miles from the mountains. It began as a normal day and thankfully Lavi said nothing about it being Bookman's birthday. He was a whole year older and still moving extremely well for his age. Seventy-eight years old; he never thought he'd live long enough to see that, but there was no need to celebrate it, none at all. They packed their things and went down to eat some breakfast before departing. All day went smoothly, quietly, walking across the open expanses of rural land.

That night should have gone like all others, but it didn't. Around the campfire that evening under an indigo sky shining with diamond stars, Lavi offered Bookman a long leather box. Bookman looked at it but didn't accept it, making the redhead's expression turn perplexed.

"What?" Bookman asked, kindling the fire as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on, like it was just another evening.

"It's a…" he looked like he was struggling to find the right word, "…present for you."

"Why? Do you feel obligated because of what today's date is?" Bookman asked, his tone almost cold.

"N-No…" said Lavi, appearing troubled, as if he wasn't quite sure. "Isn't that what you do, though? On people's birthdays, I mean? You get them a present?"

"It isn't necessary. I don't need a trophy to remind myself that I've aged another year on this earth," Bookman snapped back, making Lavi recoil slightly.

"…but isn't it to…show you appreciate someone too? That you're…glad they're still here?" Lavi asked, his voice sounding like he was tiptoeing on eggshells, which he was in a way.

"Emotions that are neither needed nor wanted; gladness and happiness are trivial," Bookman said and the fire crackled loudly, as if snapping with him.

"Oh…right…" Lavi said, eye downcast, looking at the leather box in his hands. "Well what if this is just a present just because you needed it?"

"No," Bookman answered.

"You don't have to open it today, if you don't want. You could open it tomorrow," Lavi suggested.

"No," Bookman growled, and Lavi stopped his next protest, looking defeated.

"Okay. Sorry…I bothered you," Lavi said, looking at the box again as he stood up.

"Send it back where it came from and don't bother with it again," Bookman advised, watching him go.

"Okay," Lavi said again, his back to Bookman. "G'night then. And hap—erm, never mind…"

Another year come and gone. But this year had somehow been different, Bookman thought, watching Lavi lay down on his sleeping mat far from where he sat by the fire. The leather box was tucked into his apprentice's bag and Bookman could see the top part of it sticking out, almost mocking him. And for a moment Bookman felt like he deserved it, seeing the crushed look on Lavi's face for just an instant before he could cover it up.

And Bookman spent the rest of the night staring at the stars, wondering how many years it had been since someone wished him a happy birthday.

**pqpq**

In the early dawn, Bookman woke and went about his morning routine. It would have been like any other day, but it wasn't. The box was still poking up out of Lavi's unclosed bag, only this time there was a small scrap of parchment attached to it. With his apprentice safely asleep, back to Bookman, he approached it. The handwriting was small and cramped, distinctly Lavi. It read:

_Dear Manas and Ganesa,_

_Thanks for all your hard work, but he didn't want it. Sorry for making you go through all the trouble for nothing. But you said yourselves that it's the thought that counts, right? I hope so. You can keep it or give it to Dakshina, because she said she liked it._

_Lavi_

Bookman removed the strap that held the paper in place and kept the box closed. Inside on a cushion of purple velvet laid a handsome eagle feather quill with a brass tip. Beside it was a beautiful inkwell of onyx colored crystal. A small strip of parchment was placed on the inside of the box: _Because you need a new one. Happy Birthday._

Now if that wasn't enough to guilt Bookman to the fullest, he didn't know what else could.

**pqpq**

Bookman didn't take the quill and they continued on with life as if their conversation had never happened. Well, as well as they could. Lavi was doing well to hide his disappointment, although Bookman could see it every now and then settling into his features or reflected in his only eye from time to time. Bookman on the other hand was trying not to let the guilt gnaw away at him. He was trying to teach a lesson, after all, although the thought had been very nice. Being the unbiased historian that he was, Bookman also looked at it from Lavi's point of view; the child had never been treated right his entire life. There was anger in him for what had happened to him over the years, but there was also something so charismatic about him that it was hard to ignore. Lavi was a _good_ person. He cared enough about Bookman to get him a present, a concept that had been unknown to him until a few months ago, when he received that gift from River back in the mountains. He had never given a gift before; never had someone to give a gift _to_. And when he found someone that he could give one to, he _wanted_ to. He was _kind_ to those close to him. It almost hurt Bookman to know how he was going to have to change that.

Lavi was walking a little slower as the days went by, his pace fatigued almost. Bookman attributed it to the sun and made sure they stopped that day when they came upon the first town they had seen since they stayed at the inn. The day was still young, and Bookman would have normally tried to make it fifteen miles to the next town before dark, but the way Lavi was moving was the same way as it had been back in the Caucasus' and that worried Bookman into thinking it could be a side effect from the removal of Ensio. Perhaps with a little bit of rest, Lavi would be able to function without falling apart again.

Picking a shady bench in the town center, Lavi quietly sat beside Bookman and watched the townsfolk walk by, swinging his feet almost tiredly back and forth. The old man could see that the shoes Elizaveta had provided Lavi with were falling apart steadily, frayed and ripped, not suitable for long distance walking.

"Come," Bookman said after a moment, standing up. Lavi looked confused, but followed obediently. It wasn't that far, as Bookman had spotted the shop on the way into town. A medium-sized store with open air windows and doors stood before them; a cobbler's shop. Lavi stared at it questioningly. "You need better boots than that." Lavi turned red to his ears, looking down at his tattered shoes.

"Th-There's nothing wrong with them!" Lavi said, making Bookman raise an eyebrow.

"They're falling apart. You can't possibly walk with those much longer," Bookman answered.

"They haven't fallen apart yet," Lavi said, something in his expression that Bookman couldn't describe. Something that could have been thankfulness. "I'm…just glad I've got any at all."

An image came to Bookman's mind of a redheaded child standing out in the freezing snow with no shoes on his feet at all. It probably wasn't far from the truth.

"Those are not suitable for all the walking we do. You need better ones after your last pair went to the wolves. Literally," Bookman said, not taking any more excuses. "I won't have you lagging behind because of inappropriate footwear."

Lavi sat and was sized (the cobbler looked like he wanted to burn the shoes that Lavi had previously been wearing). Bookman knew that the flimsy moccasin-like boots had hurt judging from the red and swollen nature of Lavi's tiny feet and toes once they were pulled out of the socks he wore. The owner tsked and tried to lecture them on proper foot care as he brought forth a few pairs of boots for them to look at.

"What kind were you looking for?" the cobbler asked, looking at Bookman.

"Something suitable for long-distance," Bookman answered, and the man pulled out two pairs and set them on the bench before him.

"These are the best I make. Won't fall apart, guaranteed," he said proudly. "I've known folks who've had them for years and they're still good as new."

"One pair, then," Bookman said, making the shoemaker glance at Lavi.

"Which would you like?" he offered, showing them both to him.

"Doesn't matter…" Lavi mumbled, looking embarrassed again.

But the man then insisted that Lavi should try both on and walk in them, making him go redder than before. To avoid that, Lavi picked the buckle up boots. They looked nearly identical to the ones he had been given upon starting out on their journey. Lavi must have been against too much change.

"You didn't have to get them for me," Lavi was grumbling as they left. "I could have just asked Manas and Ganesa to order me another pair…"

"Don't ever trust those idiots to do anything for you," Bookman said, lighting a cigarette. "And you needed them, so stop griping, you ungrateful thing." Lavi stopped after that, but must have been sulking somewhat still and made sure to step in every single puddle as childishly as he could.

They were looking for lodgings for that night when Lavi's stomach growled loudly. His ears turned red again when Bookman's gaze settled on him.

"What?" he asked, as if Bookman might have misheard. But then there was another long, loud noise and he made a face. "Breakfast must have not cut it today I guess…" He went to rummage through his bag, probably to look for some of the fruit that he had nabbed from back at Georgeta's house. But before he could even get the flap open all the way, a chicken shot out, madly flapping and scattering feathers everywhere. Some people stared, most likely wondering where the chicken had come from. Finally, it calmed down and Lavi shooed it away from them, toward where a few other chickens were pecking nearby. While he did this, Bookman found a vendor selling panetone and bought two. When Lavi came back over, Bookman handed him one and he took it, looking at it curiously.

"What is it?" Lavi asked, sniffing it.

"Food," Bookman answered, continuing on down the street, looking for an affordable inn.

"What _kind_ of food is it?" Lavi reiterated, taking a small bite out of the end.

"Panetone," Bookman answered, taking a bite of his. "It's a yeast bread filled with walnuts, chocolate, and poppy seeds."

"It's sweet," he said, after a moment of debate.

"The chocolate makes it that way," Bookman explained.

"I've never had it before," Lavi said, as if trying to defend himself. "It's good, thanks."

"No need for thanks," Bookman replied, finding an inn, but it was closed for another hour or so, so it was back to the shady bench in the center of town.

"For the boots too," Lavi said, following him, still making his way through the sweet dessert.

"Once again, no need for thanks," Bookman said, taking a seat. "You needed shoes and I provided them. You were hungry and I provided food. That is my duty."

"That's a way of putting it so you don't sound like you were being nice, right?" Lavi asked, looking at him over the panetone. Bookman just puffed on his cigarette without answering, and he saw Lavi grin a little, in that almost annoying sort of way. "Hey, gramps," he said, after a moment.

"Hay is for horses," Bookman answered back, not looking at him.

"Ne, gramps," Lavi said again, looking at the rest of his dessert with a thoughtful expression again. "What's today?" Bookman counted in his head.

"August 10th," he answered.

"Today's my birthday then," Lavi said resolutely, taking another bite of his panetone.

"Why would you say that?" Bookman asked, unable to help it.

"Because a lot of good things happened today," Lavi answered, slight smile on his face. He opened the front pocket of his bag and produced the long-leather box again. Bookman gave him a glare, but Lavi poked him in the arm with it. "You needed a new one, so I got one for you. That way it doesn't make it sound like I was obligated to get something for you and you can pretend that it wasn't for your birthday."

Bookman accepted his present without another word and the two of them finished their desserts in the balmy breeze under a cool oak. It was a beautiful sunny day.

**pqpq**

Did you enjoy? I hope so. Because guess what's not going to get updated for a while…? –hides from projectile weapons and blunt instruments thrown at her- Sorry, sorry. I'm moving into my dorm in a few weeks, getting ready to leave for college, going to con…I'm going to be super busy. I'll try my best to write, but I can't promise anything…unless of course you want to motivate me with a flood of reviews? –is shot and killed- Haha, just kidding.

On a story note: did you like how I put the translations under where the actual Mandarin was used? Huh, huh? Pretty nice, huh? –is stomped on- Yeah, yeah, I know…

On a personal note, I'm going to **Matsuricon** in two weeks in Worthington, Ohio. Anyone going to be there? I'm up for a meeting and some lunch, and (of course) feeling like someone famous. –is killed once again- Sorry, sorry, my ego is much too big. But, seriously, if you're going, I'd love to talk with you. And if you're weirded out by that, it's cool, you can just wave at me if you're there. I'll be cosplaying D. Gray-Man with an entire group. I'll be their extremely sexy (but quite obviously female) Lavi.

I'll try to get one more chapter out before I go to college, promise! And then once I get a schedule, I can figure out when I have time to update. It shouldn't be that bad…-hopeful-

**Next Time**: Bookman and Lavi head for Hungary, but what do they find there? The "Singing Organ" is what exactly? And what does Bookman do when a certain Black Order shows up, claiming there to be an accommodator nearby?

Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, alerts, and everything. Love you guys, really I do!

**Dhampir72**


	25. Avoidance Techniques

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay on this (wow, two whole months). College is hating me and my double major right now, XD. Read and enjoy (and don't hate any mistakes, as I haven't proofread very much)!

**pqpq**

Bookman was glad to find that Lavi was getting used to having personas. The three after Ensio proved that Lavi's mind was becoming accustomed to the introduction of a separate personality to his psyche, which Bookman found extremely promising. Lavi was learning to cooperate with his persona, giving the mask he wore more depth in the means of intelligence and the ability to articulate and process information well. But other than that, Lavi remained surprisingly dormant, almost submissive to whatever persona he wore. At least it didn't matter the personality: Lavi always knew his objective and his purpose by Bookman's side. The old man couldn't ask for a more capable apprentice.

The second persona was discarded without seeing much, but the third, Boris, saw enough for the two of them. They had been traveling through the Carpathian Mountains and stumbled across a train being ransacked by robbers. Apparently, there were gold pieces and other monetary equivalents, along with teas, coffee, and spices from the orient that were becoming rapidly expensive because of the rise in economic status in Asia and her island nations. These men had somehow surprised the people on the train, including armed guards, and had made everyone get off a station early. Bookman and Lavi watched from a safe distance away under a gray sky, the old man keeping a mental record as the incident unfolded before their eyes.

_28__th__ August, 1876_

_Carpathian Mountains, Romania._

_Everyone aboard locomotive 3471-8 is being forced off at this station in -- by an armed group of unknown men. There are no insignias or indications of whom they may be, so it can be assumed at this time that they are an independent, unheard of group, or perhaps hired mercenaries for a third party. They waste no time in securing the arms from the guards that had been riding aboard the train. Although the vessel was transporting goods, it was also a passenger transit. Men, women, and children of all ages exit in various states of fear and anxiousness. While some men keep them on the platform, others move toward the end cars and open the doors. Inside these cargo holds are funds, most likely being transferred from one bank or vault to another. Gold bars are in neat stacks, coins in large, burlap sacks. There are a multitude of other things as well, perhaps for a market trade: luxuries such as coffee, teas, salts, spices. Something that smells like it could be opium, one cannot be certain. All smell is beginning to become drowned out by the humidity in the air and as the oncoming storm clouds that have been lingering all day begin to pour down._

_The people huddle, watching as these thieves begin to unload the car. They do nothing, at first; merely stand and watch. And then, they begin to act. This behaviour, prompted by the endorphins and adrenaline, along with the all encompassing fear of the prospect that if nothing is done, they will most likely be killed, some men begin to murmur to one another, formulating a plan, judging from the movements of their hands and the secretive glances spared at their captors. They begin and are ruthlessly pushed back by use of arms from the thieves. Loaded muskets and even smaller arms at close range produce messy results that splatter vermillion on the wooden platform. Women scream, mass panic ensues, which leads to more shooting, stabbing, killing. The women that are still alive are easily violated, children slaughtered—_

Bookman had to stop his mental record there for two reasons: one being the sudden onslaught of rain, and the second being that his apprentice was no longer by his side, but somewhere behind him, gagging. The old man grabbed Lavi by the collar of his cloak when he was through, pulling him back up close to where he sat. He looked pale tinged with green, horrified at the display. Boris was too kindhearted, just as Lavi was. All of his personas so far had that flaw and were weak in that sense.

"Watch," Bookman said.

A woman was screaming, on her back amongst the corpses, colored crimson as a man pinned her to the ground and proceeded to have his way with her. Lavi's face turned away, cringing as her bloodcurdling voice got louder with agony. Bookman gripped his wet, red hair and turned his head back to look at the scene through the onslaught of rain.

"Watch," Bookman repeated.

The woman was still screaming. An injured man managed to drag himself up from the ground to try and aid her. He was already bleeding badly, nearly dead, but trying so hard to do something to help. When he was almost to her, another thief turned to regard him and, without so much as another thought, shot him in the back of the head. The force from the projectile went right through him and blasted out his forehead, coating the thrashing woman in more blood. It made her hysterical and she continued with the most anguished of yells. Lavi's only eye flickered down, focusing on the rocks rather than on the gruesome history that was being made before him. Bookman released his hair and roughly grabbed his chin, angling his face so that no matter what, he would have no choice but to witness that.

"Don't look away," Bookman said.

Atop of the hysterical woman, the man that was violating her must have gotten tired of her screams and pulled out his weapon to silence her. Even as her body went still and her lifeblood flowed out of her broken skull, the man continued until he finished and finally pulled out of her. He could feel Lavi trembling under his fingers, see his eyelashes fluttering with every tremor that ran through him.

"Don't ever look away," Bookman commanded.

The men were done after that. They split into two groups: one to unload the train into their carts, the second to pile up the bodies. One on top of the other on top of the other…Then there was fire. Under the protection of an overhang and with the aid of some oil, the bodies lit easily. Bookman could see the golden light reflecting in Lavi's eye like an ember burning slowly in the night.

"I hate people…" Lavi murmured quietly, watching the men running off with their spoils. His eye was now fixed on the burning bodies, Bookman's grip unnecessary.

Boris was discarded not long after that. He went passively, almost with relief at the disappearance of his existence after witnessing such a traumatizing event. And it was during the few days in between Boris and the next persona that Lavi apologized to Bookman.

"What for?" Bookman asked, looking down at Lavi from around his paper. "Whatever did you do this time?"

"I'm sorry for freaking out…back in the mountains," Lavi said, eye downcast. "I thought I could handle it, so I assumed my persona could too, but I was wrong."

"It isn't easy to watch something like that the first time," Bookman answered, going back to hide behind his paper.

"But it wasn't my first time…seeing something like that," Lavi replied, from somewhere behind the Editor's Notes. And although Bookman didn't move the paper to look at him, he could feel that the room got very still suddenly. "I mean…I saw a bunch of people get killed…a lot…" The chair next to Bookman was moved and he heard the sound of Lavi crawling under the table as if to hide as well. "Does it…ever get any easier? You know…watching people get killed?"

"You hate humans so much, why does this bother you?" Bookman asked, snapping the paper a little to add to the impression of him not being all-too interested in what Lavi was talking about.

"I dunno…it just feels wrong…and I can't just hate 'bad' people, because what's really 'bad' anyway? Everyone's got some badness in them, just some more than others," Lavi said.

"So hate them, then," Bookman suggested, wondering if Lavi would snap up the bait.

"But who am I to judge who has more badness than someone else?" Lavi asked, and Bookman could almost imagine him under the table, knees to his chest, looking smaller than ever.

"Then don't hate anyone," Bookman said.

"But I do hate them," Lavi answered.

"If you hated people so much, you would have been able to watch with no remorse and no regret. Guilt would not haunt you, nor dreams plague you," Bookman answered, moving his paper unnecessarily just to make a sound in the quiet room. "But you were unable to watch because you do not unconditionally hate humans."

"_You_ were able to watch," Lavi said.

"_I_ have practice," Bookman replied.

"Practice at what? Watching people die without feeling anything?" Lavi asked, his tone turning slightly bitter.

"Exactly," Bookman answered. "Impartiality is the most esteemed value and most practiced doctrine of our Clan."

"So…basically don't care," Lavi said, his voice sounding glum. "Apathy instead of hate, because hate is a biased emotion, right?"

"Correct," Bookman answered, putting the paper down on the table. "In this world, there are only three things that matter to you; that you cannot be indifferent to. One: the recording of the hidden history we seek. Two: the establishment and proper discarding of persona. Three: the never-ending pursuit of knowledge and truth. These three things you must hold above all others and pursue them progressively."

"Everything else?" Lavi asked, voice almost dripping with trepidation.

"Emotions, attachments, feelings are all to be regarded as coldly and indifferently as possible. They are unnecessary. Even 'hate' is too strong of an emotion," Bookman said. "A persona may experience a number of these things at once, but it is your duty as the main personality to keep them in check and never let them run too deep. If they do end up reaching this far, to actually interact with your main personality, you are in danger of letting yourself become more than just an unbiased, indifferent observer. If that day ever comes, you'll no longer be a Bookman."

"Impartiality…" Lavi murmured quietly, as if testing out the word. "So this will really…make me not care or…feel anything?"

"It is inaccurate to say you will feel nothing," Bookman said, "but you will feel something so miniscule that it will not have an impact on your recording."

"So it will make me neutral, then?" Lavi asked, his voice sounding more depressed by the minute.

"In a sense, yes. Without the distraction of personal bias, you will be able to logically process information: in a conflict, there are almost always two groups," Bookman began. "The aggressors—the ones who began the conflict—and the victims—the ones who suffer at the hands of the aggressors. It is human nature to sympathize with the victims, just as it is human nature to place blame on the aggressors. However, with a neutral mindset, you merely accept three things: that there was a conflict, that people suffered because of this conflict, and that any emotions you may have over this conflict will not change the course of what happened so they are, therefore, unnecessary. Then, and only then, can you truly call yourself an unbiased observer. Impartiality at its finest."

"But will that make me not _feel_?" Lavi inquired, after a moment of letting it sink in.

"Did you even listen to what I just said, or did it pass through that thick skull of yours too quickly?" Bookman asked.

"No, I get it," Lavi answered glumly from under the table. "The theory and the practice sound infallible. But…we can't completely eradicate our human instincts, no matter how much we try, right? It won't make me biased, leaning to one side or the other, if I care that a human life was wasted, right?"

"Tending to care about even one human life will make your account unusable," Bookman said sternly. "And you are correct: it is impossible to completely erase human nature from our personalities. But there are ways to overcome the troublesome parts of these emotions so they are mostly latent."

"How?"

"Personal seclusion. The best way to achieve this is by not interfering with humans at all. The further you distance yourself, the more detached your emotions will become."

Lavi went quiet for a long time after that. Bookman wondered what he could be thinking of, learning the full regulations for this position he had suddenly found himself striving so hard to fill.

"No one said this road would be an easy one," Bookman said.

"I didn't expect it to be one," Lavi answered.

"Then stop sulking," Bookman replied, picking his paper up after he lit a cigarette.

"I'm not sulking," Lavi retorted, obviously sulking. "I'm just…thinking."

"Thinking for you might be dangerous. I would advise against it," Bookman said, and upon hearing Lavi move slightly added: "And if you even think about kicking me, I'll shave your head while you sleep."

Needless to say, Lavi stayed very still after that.

**pqpq**

Ince was Lavi's fourth persona. It meant Innocence in Hungarian, and was a rather popular name at the moment in the region. Some might think it was ironic, the name for the boy who was training to be a Bookman. After what he had seen and experienced, surely there was no innocence left. But Lavi didn't seem to mind, and neither Bookman, as his _innocently_ cute looks had gotten them a ride from Oradea to Hungary. Crossing the border between Romania and Hungary, Bookman and Lavi found themselves in the second largest city in the country: Debrecen. It was a busy place, full of trade and life despite the seemingly never-ending gray sky that had remained over Eastern Europe for nearly all of August and September.

In such a big place, it was easy to find a doctor to remove the plaster cast from Lavi's healed wrist. He was at least kind enough to provide Lavi with a lightweight splint to wear for the next few weeks so that it wouldn't accidentally break again, giving it time and support to get stronger.

"So, why here?" Lavi asked, fiddling with one of the straps on his brace, sounding bored. As they walked down the street, they passed people rushing by on their daily business under the darkening sky. Rain would be coming soon. "What's the big deal about Europe anyway?" Ince's attention was flitting between their one-sided conversation and the colorful buildings, clothes swinging on drying lines, and the stray cats running around people's ankles.

"This is where it starts…again…" Bookman murmured, as Lavi kneeled down to pet a kitten that had come across his path. He looked at the sky as if the snarling black clouds could tell him something important.

"Huh, what?" Lavi asked, looking up at him after the cat had scampered away.

"It's going to rain, let us go," Bookman said, and continued walking. Lavi obediently followed, staying close to his elbow as they made their way through the crowd of people rushing to get home before it poured.

"Hey," Lavi said, just before they began crossing the street.

"Hay is for horses, brat. How many times do I have to tell you?" Bookman replied.

"Ne, what's that?" Lavi asked, stopping in the middle of the road. Bookman was nearing the curb when he looked back at his apprentice. He appeared confused, like someone trying to find something in the dark, or trying to hear a sound from underwater. But he didn't have much time to wonder what was wrong with his apprentice, a little too concerned with the fact that Lavi was standing in the street and a carriage was rushing at him at top speed.

"Get out of the road!" the driver of the coach shouted, but didn't seem to try to be restraining his horses in the slightest. And Lavi wasn't helping much, either, still looking around himself in a confused daze, not moving out of the path of the oncoming projectile. Luckily for Bookman, and for Lavi, the old man was fast to react, dashing out into the street quickly enough to yank his apprentice out of the way by the collar of his cloak, pulling him to the safety of the curb as the carriage rushed by without so much as even slowing.

"What were you thinking, idiot?" Bookman growled, smacking the back of his head with enough force to knock him to the ground.

"Owww…"

"You would be in much more pain than that if you had remained in the road any longer," Bookman grumbled, reaching down to hoist Lavi up by collar again so that he was standing again. "Would you like to explain _why_ you were standing in the middle of the road like the mentally handicapped?"

"Huh?" Lavi said, looking at him, confused. Bookman's patience was wearing thin, his fingers already twitching, wanting a cigarette. He took a deep breath to quell the desire.

"Why were you so incompetent that you remained in the middle of the street? Has no one ever told you that it isn't a good idea to play in traffic?" Bookman asked, his sarcastic question having no affect, as Lavi wasn't even looking at him.

"Don't you hear it?"

Lavi was staring down the street, the same way the coach had gone, toward one of the most well-known buildings in Debrecen: the _Nagytemplom_. Also known as the Protestant Great Church, it was a huge, yellow building that stood out in vibrant contrast to the gray atmosphere.

"Hear what exactly?" Bookman asked, looking in the same direction as Lavi. His apprentice actually started walking slowly in that direction, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

"There's something…like music…" Lavi replied, in a far-away voice as he headed toward the church. Bookman followed, curious, dividing his attention between the structure and Lavi. He paid no mind to the storm clouds gathering above them, but focused on the_ Nagytemplom_ and how, with each step toward it, he too could hear a melody playing. But it wasn't anything light or ethereal; it was deep and intense, dramatic almost.

"An organ," Bookman said, answering Lavi's vague description of the musical instrument that was creating the sound.

"Can other people hear it?" Lavi asked, as people hurried by them to wherever they needed to be so urgently. Bookman was unsure, as no one seemed to be displaying any outward signs of hearing the music. It would have to be something looked into…

They were directly across the street from the church, staring at the sweeping architecture that looked somewhat less formidable because of the buttermilk color of the building. But it was beautiful, nonetheless. The sound emitting from the building, however, was a different matter. It was so intense, almost gothic-sounding, and something about it made Bookman uneasy.

"I've never heard an organ before," Lavi said, tilting his head at the building. "Is it supposed to sound like that?"

Bookman didn't answer again, the both of them standing there most likely looking strange as they stared at the building. And then Bookman finally used his eyes and could see that the coach that had almost killed Lavi was parked outside the church with two others just like it. There were men in khaki uniforms, silver cross roses on their breast pockets… All thoughts of researching the organ's phenomenon left his mind and Bookman grasped at Lavi's arm to keep him from going any further toward the building. Some of the men were looking at them, one openly pointing in their direction. And with that, Bookman turned them around and began walking the way they had come.

"Why are we leaving?" Lavi asked from beside him.

"Because it is the safest thing we can do right now," Bookman answered, looking over his shoulder quickly. One of the men was crossing the street to follow them. "Come on." Bookman pulled Lavi down the nearest alleyway which led to another street. They crossed it, ducking into the next narrow space between buildings and so on and so forth until they were as far away as they could get before the rain started. "In here." Bookman found the nearest hotel and they hurried inside out of the downpour.

The inside was darkly lit from dirty, overhanging lanterns and people were crammed inside at the bar drinking and gambling. Smoke hung in the air like a permanent curtain and Lavi coughed from beside him, making a disgusted face. The patrons didn't look at them when they entered, too consumed with whatever sort of debauchery they were taking part in, dirty, greasy faces alight with decadence.

"Hey there, looking for some fun tonight?"

A group of four prostitutes were standing by the wall in various states of undress. Their hair was wild, tangled and tussled, their eyes rimmed with too much kohl (but was Bookman truly one to judge?) and lips painted too bright red. Voluptuous breasts were practically spilling out of their corsets, along with currency which attested to other business they had done that day. Their pupils were so dilated that they had to be strung out on opium.

"The kid can watch for free," one said, making Lavi cough again. But it had nothing to do with the smoke.

"Maybe some other time," Bookman answered, and they all looked surprisingly pleased with themselves.

It had to be opium.

**pqpq**

"Jeez, so what's with this fanclub you've got going with all these women who want you?" Lavi asked, when they had been given a room. It was small and cramped, just like the rest of the inn, and right over the bar, so it smelled like vodka, cigarettes, and stale vomit. Cheery. "It's creepy."

"I concur," Bookman said, going over to the window to peek out through the curtains. It was still raining outside, nearing dusk, so there were few people out. But Bookman saw a khaki blur run by, and he moved behind the curtains until the uniformed man had passed.

"I think there should be a club for me," Lavi continued from where he had flopped down on the edge of the bed. "Me, me, me. I'm pretty enough. I should have a fanclub. But there would have to be lots of hummus. I love hummus…" Bookman tuned Lavi out as he uncharacteristically rambled, choosing instead to remove his shoes and slightly damp cloak before taking guard again at the window. "…do you think they have hummus here? I hope so…because what's a me fanclub without hummus?"

"I didn't know you were such an egoist."

"Hey, it's all about me," Lavi said, rolling over on his stomach to grin stupidly at Bookman. "And I know what it's all about, thank you very much."

"Apparently not, or else there would be women in your fanclub," Bookman replied, his attention still directed out the window. "Or perhaps you lean toward male company." Even so involved in his watching, it didn't go unnoticed when Lavi turned almost as red as his hair.

"Wha-what?! No! There are women there. And _only_ women," Lavi tried to assure him, stumbling over his words a little. "They're…belly dancers…and they like to serve me hummus while they're dancing. And I like watching them," he added quickly, almost as if it was an afterthought. Then he rolled over on his back again with a sigh. "It's like the best of both worlds. I get to eat and they get to dance around and jingle. Everybody wins. It's a fanclub for meeeee and there's hummus, yussss…."

"Sometimes it hurts me to listen to you speak," Bookman said.

"Sometimes it hurts me to know you agreed to fornicate in front of me," Lavi replied in a matching tone.

"I agreed to no such thing," Bookman answered.

"Yeah _right_, and if you're going to do that, please tell me so I can be far away. I really don't want to come in and see…" Lavi put his face into his hands. "Ugh! Why, why, why do I have such a visual imagination?! The mental images are…whyyyy?!" Bookman threw a pillow at his head to get him to shut up before resuming his previous activity of staring out the window.

"Well, someone's grouchy today," Lavi mumbled from under the pillow. "And here all I was asking for was world admiration and belly dancers who would feed me hummus…" His stomach growled loudly. "Ahhh…I'm so hungry…I'm going to go get food downstairs…"

"Don't talk to anyone," Bookman said, not looking away from the foggy glass in front of him. "If someone gets close to you and wants to talk, you scream _rape_, understand?"

"_Rape_, in this place? People might just want to _watch_," Lavi mumbled, disgust leaking into his voice as he got up to leave. It was only when the sound of Lavi's footsteps disappeared behind the closed door that Bookman allowed something like worry to creep into his expression. He should have known and he should have seen that this was coming, what with the shift that the world was coming into.

The Black Order was on the hunt for more soldiers.

**pqpq**

Night fell and with the safety of the darkness also came the fear of the unknown and the unseen. Bookman knew that they would not remain in Debrecen for very long. Not with the Order running about. Although the Bookmen and the Order had had a few arrangements in the past, there hadn't been a connection between the two in a long time. And even then, the connection was far from an alliance. But bitter feelings were not what Bookman was worried about; it was the substance called Innocence that made him feel uneasy. The incident in Qandahar was far from forgotten. After all, how could such an exposure to Innocence leave them unaffected? And now they could hear a mysterious organ that could or could not be heard by others, but either way, the phenomenon was being investigated by the Order, which meant the cause was most likely Innocence-related.

In any case, if they were to be stopped, they would most likely be questioned, or tested upon. If they resisted, they would be forced, and if they escaped, they would be hunted. The Vatican was not one to let traitors free so easily.

And speaking of traitors, where had his air-headed apprentice wandered off to?

"Idiot…" Bookman muttered, moving toward the door to go look for him. But he didn't have to go very far, as Lavi was coming up the stairs with a rather pleased look on his face. "I thought you were going for food."

"I did," Lavi answered. Behind him there were giggling voices and the four whores appeared carrying various plates and bowls of Hungarian specialties.

"Hello!" they chorused at him, all smiles and…lots of breasts.

"What," Bookman said, looking at Lavi, unable to articulate what he wanted to so badly. As in 'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' and although the words didn't necessarily come, Bookman was sure his expression was doing enough of that for Lavi to figure it out.

"I was hungry," Lavi replied, with the most innocent of expressions it was almost as disarming as the half-naked women following him.

"I presumed for food," Bookman answered.

"Well, yeah, for food. They're carrying plates, see," Lavi said, pointing at mentioned dishes. "They were really nice to carry them for me because after I was blinded it that horrible farming accident, my depth perception is completely gone. They didn't want me spilling it everywhere." Bookman could tell Ince was milking the hell out of that one and Lavi was going along with it, probably just for kicks. "Oh, and so this is: Katalin, Felicia, Esztr, and Magdolna. They told me they thought it'd be fun if we all ate together and then we could have a sleepover." It was most apparent that it was for kicks and both Ince and Lavi were pushing to see how far Bookman could go before he had a heart attack.

"Idiot," Bookman said, hitting him none-too gently on the side of the head, which sent him crashing into the door across the hall. It moved inwards with the force of his motion and revealed three men smoking a hookah on a tiny, sagging bed.

"Nice of you to drop in," said one of the men after he had puffed a perfect ring of smoke from his lips. He looked at Lavi, who was practically unconscious on the floor, then at Bookman, who must have had quite a look on his face, and then finally at the four ladies who stood in the hall looking in. Either they were excited about seeing the scantily clad women, or they were excited about seeing the food that the scantily clad women were holding. "Would you like to join us?"

"It'd be our pleasure!" said Esztr, who stepped over Lavi to enter the room. The other three girls did the same as Bookman dragged his apprentice by the collar across the hall back to their room.

"Heeeeyyy…they've got our dinner…" Lavi mumbled, after Bookman had closed their door and dropped him on the ground.

"That's the least of your worries right now," Bookman grumbled back at him, sitting down to brood at a rickety table shoved in the corner.

"But I'm so hungry…" Lavi moaned, pulling himself up onto the bed melodramatically, where he curled up into a sad little ball. Bookman almost felt badly for a moment, but then the emotion was quickly squashed and killed.

"Maybe you should have thought of that before involving those ladies of ill repute," Bookman retorted; Lavi kicked off one of his boots harshly to show that he was annoyed. "No need to get testy."

"You're the one getting testy," Lavi growled, kicking his other boot off so it fell to the ground with a loud _thunk_! "I was just avoiding the ugly guy in khaki."

"Khaki," Bookman repeated, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. "One of those men was here?"

"He was looking for us," Lavi answered, his back to Bookman. "Luckily everyone around here doesn't remember anything or anyone past five minutes. And everyone else who might remember doesn't take kindly to Catholics." Debrecen was a major Protestant area, and the rift between the Vatican and that sect of Christianity clashed on numerous occasions, so hostility from the locals had probably not led the man to suspect anyone harboring the two Bookmen. "Magdolna helped me hide in the cupboard under the bar until he left." Lavi turned over to face him, green eye studying Bookman through long strands of red hair. "Why are they after us?"

"They aren't after us," Bookman replied.

"Then why are we hiding?" Lavi asked.

"We aren't hiding," Bookman said.

"Then what are we doing?" Lavi inquired.

Bookman looked toward the window where the rain was streaming down over the gray glass.

"We're running."

**pqpq**

Between the whores doing their business next door and Lavi's stomach, Bookman barely got any sleep at all. Lavi's stomach growled all night to the point where Bookman shoved him out of bed and told him to eat something or he'd kill him.

"The kitchen's closed…" Lavi told him, quietly after he had gone downstairs in search of sustenance, only to come back empty handed. The two of them hadn't gotten any food upon arriving in the city because of the incident the previous day, so their packs were empty as well. It was some early hour of the morning, and the rain was letting up, so Bookman shoved his head under the pillow and told Lavi to go out to find something, but to be back by dawn. Lavi was so quick to do so that Bookman didn't even hear him leave.

During the span of time between night and gray-dawn, Bookman had a strange dream about the end of the world. Everything had become its opposite so it was like walking in the sky, tiptoeing on planets, watching as the earth above him slowly drowned, the most beautiful colors of cerulean and indigo swirling before him making it so easy to not hear the screams…And then the blue bled into red, harsh and so vivid that it was startling to look at: a sky (or was it earth or sea?) of blood.

_Beautiful, isn't it?_

Unlike the last time Bookman had dreamed about a voice, this time, it was something different. More malicious, deeper, darker, masculine. Bookman knew that voice, although the identity remained out of reach.

_Isn't it so easy to watch, Bookman?_

A hand reached out of the bloody mass of space and swirling screams before him, reaching out toward Bookman with long fingers, stained with something dark, like ink.

_After all, isn't it all just ink on paper to you?_

Bookman awoke with a start to a weak sunlit day that filtered in dimly through dirty windows. The room was silent and still, Lavi's bag missing, all indicators of his presence, gone. It was past dawn, that was for sure, a few hours after, in fact, and his apprentice was nowhere in sight. Cursing, Bookman hurried awake, getting dressed and ready, packing the few things he had taken out the night before back into his bag, before getting up to leave. He left one thing behind, which was a piece of parchment on the bed: _**Noitats**_ it read, in case Lavi came back looking for him. It would take a person a few moments to figure out the simple code of a word spelled backwards, but that few moments could prove essential. Maybe if they were truly lucky, the Order, if they sent anyone after them, would have sent an imbecile.

After making sure Lavi wasn't hiding in some broom cupboard with more prostitutes, Bookman paid a shady-looking man for the room and left out into the drizzling back streets of Debrecen. There was only one place Bookman could think of that Lavi would be, which was the one place the two of them should have been avoiding. That church was just too intriguing not to investigate, but now that Bookman knew it was Innocence and not something else, and not a main determinant of an historical event, he could really care less about it. If it meant sacrificing a rather interesting log in exchange for both his and his apprentice's safety, then Bookman was prepared to do it. Because once one was shackled to that silver cross rose, there was no way out but death. And Bookman already had a life-long job, thank you very much, and he didn't need another one added to that. The worse case scenario, however, would be only one of them becoming an accommodator. What would happen then?

Outside the _Nagytemplom, _Bookman ducked into an alley, keeping a close eye on where he saw movement outside the church. There were many men in tan uniform, among them one person in black, an Exorcist. It was too far away for Bookman to be able to discern distinguishing features about the Exorcist, but he knew that it was an older man judging from the color of his hair.

"What a beautiful building," the older man mused aloud for everyone to hear as he stared at the intricate architecture of the church.

"Is it true that this boy is an accommodator for that Innocence?" asked one of the aids to the Exorcist.

"Yes, it resonates soundly with him," replied the old Exorcist. The colors of his coat were different from the contrasting black and white they normally wore. It was the same color as the coat he had seen back in Qandahar. Gold and black: the sign of a General. "We are most fortunate."

"And the nonexistent akuma activity you believe has something to do with this Innocence?" asked another.

"Listen, can you hear it?" asked the General, bringing a hand to cup around his ear. He was indicating the sound of the organ that still played from within the church. It was obvious from the other men's faces that they couldn't. "That melody is poisonous to akuma. They can't get near here. This city is perhaps safer now than it will be once we remove the Innocence."

"So this boy…?" began another, looking at someone to the Exorcist's right; someone Bookman could not see from the current angle. He moved slightly to catch a glimpse of a boy touching his early to mid-teens, who stood obediently off to the side by the carriage, his eyes closed as if he were enjoying the music.

"Is the new addition to our family," the Exorcist finished. Bookman couldn't help but think that _family_ wasn't the right word used when referring to an organization that enslaved its soldiers.

"And the others we came across yesterday?" inquired one of the other men.

"Could they not be found?" asked the General, sounding disappointed.

"No. There is no trace of them, General."

"Now that is unfortunate," the Exorcist sighed. "Only those capable of wielding Innocence would be able to hear this…most unfortunate they've gone…but I'm sure our paths will cross again. After all, it's God's plan that brought us and will continue to bring us all together for this Cause." Bookman saw that the Exorcist's attention diverted slightly to the left, where he saw a flash of red disappear behind a brick wall. "In the meantime, let us finish what we came to do and welcome our new addition."

And with that, the Exorcist turned to the blind boy and said: "Welcome to the Black Order, Marie."

**pqpq**

"Whoa, shit," Lavi muttered, almost slipping into a nearby puddle. "That was close."

"Indeed it was," Bookman answered, pulling him by the sleeve of his cloak through the throngs of people crowding the street as he directed them toward the train station. "And don't swear; it makes me look irresponsible."

"That guy almost saw me. Did you see that? He looked right at me…" Lavi kept talking to himself, allowing Bookman to drag him around without complaint.

"We'll have to work on a handy quality called stealth," Bookman said upon the time they entered the crowded archway outside the train station. Rain was threatening to fall harder from the gray sky and people were huddled under overhangs to keep out of the eventual downpour.

"I'm pretty stealthy. I'm a stealth master," Lavi replied, mostly under his breath, so it was almost lost under the barrage of sound, but Bookman still heard it.

"Except for the fact you were almost seen and apprehended," Bookman answered, moving toward the ticket counter. The train that was leaving within the next few minutes was headed south towards Serbia. Any train out of town was the right one, in Bookman's opinion. Besides, he had some business to see to in Athens, so they were at least traveling in the right direction.

"Well, yeah. There was that…" Lavi admitted, looking at the signs as they walked by platforms. The light drizzle had increased, melting into a gentle rain by the time they reached their train, which was already boarding. They hopped onto the transport at the back and found an empty compartment. Lavi got up on the seat and sat on his knees so he could look out the fogged window at the people walking by on the platform. "So why are we running again?" he asked, glancing over at Bookman as he slid the door shut and took a seat on the bench across from his apprentice.

"Those people represent something—an organization—that wishes to fight a devastating war," Bookman answered.

"A war," Lavi repeated, something like disappointment ringing in his voice.

"A war that will lead to many deaths," Bookman said, lighting a cigarette.

"Who are they?" Lavi asked, looking back out the window. Bookman could see his reflection in the glass and had to wonder what was lurking underneath such an intense expression.

"An organization known as the Black Order, a sect of the Vatican," Bookman answered. "Just as it is our duty to collect the hidden history of the world, it is their duty to fight a secret war no one will ever know about."

"Except us?" Lavi prompted, tilting his head slightly to the side with something akin to interest.

"Except us," Bookman said, flicking his used ashes into the tray that he pulled open from the wall.

"Well, then shouldn't we be with them? To…" Lavi asked, stopping for a moment as if he were trying to think of the correct English word, "…observe?"

"The smartest thing for us to do is to stay away from them," Bookman answered.

"Why?" Lavi inquired, so full of questions.

"Because I said so," Bookman replied, which earned a pout from Lavi. It would have been adorable to any other person besides Bookman. But finally his pathetic look made the old man relent. Lavi would have to learn sooner or later exactly what forces would drive the world into chaos. "Because the Black Order is notorious for being cruel to children."

"What?" Lavi asked, obviously not expecting that answer.

"There was a series of experiments that the Black Order conducted on children to force them into becoming soldiers for their cause," Bookman said, watching as Lavi paled somewhat.

"How?" he wondered aloud.

"The members of the Black Order are equipped with a substance called Innocence, which is a repellant of dark matter," Bookman explained. "According to records, the Innocence was broken during the Great Flood and its pieces scattered throughout the world. The Black Order is attempting to find these pieces of Innocence to have people wield them as weapons in their war.

"There are few people who can use Innocence as a weapon. The records refer to them as _accommodators_. Because of the dearth of these people in the world, the Organization is small and fragile. It is doubtful that they will win the war they pursue. That is why they began experimenting, using the offspring of those that could use Innocence in hopes that it was a genetic ability. But when they realized that the Innocence was such a random selection, they began using anyone they could find. Mostly they were children without homes or families. The records are vague, but it is apparently one of the most traumatic things a body can go through: attempting to assimilate with Innocence when not an accommodator. It makes a person fall into Fault."

"Fault?" Lavi repeated.

"A rejection of Innocence. It is unclear exactly what this state truly is, but it is a painful process," Bookman answered. Lavi sat down on the seat with his knees to his chest and his head leaning against the glass. The train had prepared for departure and was beginning to pick up speed down the tracks, the gray Hungarian city of Debrecen rushing by them as they began heading south.

"They would have taken you with them," Bookman said, not knowing why he had such an impulsion to inform his apprentice of this fact.

"Why?" Lavi asked, his gaze focused downward, far, far away.

"Because you might be an accommodator," Bookman answered. "And they need Exorcists. They don't care how old you are. If you can wield Innocence, you become a soldier." Lavi looked up at him, staring straight at him with such a searching stare it was almost an invasion of privacy.

"But you heard it, too," Lavi said, his green eye steady and dark in the dimly lit cabin. "And back in Qandahar, we both heard it there, too. So it wouldn't be just me."

"And that's also an issue," Bookman said, flicking more ashes into the tray. "Because becoming an Exorcist is a life-long occupation: you wear it until you die, or until this war is over. And by that time, you'll most likely be dead."

"That sounds…like a good reason to run away…" Lavi said, his stare finally dropping. They fell into silence, only the clattering of the train as it made its way down the tracks reaching their ears. Bookman's cigarette had burned itself out by the time Lavi decided to break the quiet:

"Hey, gramps."

"Hay is for horses, brat," Bookman replied and he could have sworn Lavi rolled his only eye with his long-suffering sigh.

"Ne, gramps," he corrected himself, but stopped suddenly, as if he were thinking or debating on exactly what to say next. The time it was taking was too long, in Bookman's opinion.

"Think before you speak," Bookman said, although not harshly.

"I…" Lavi continued, "wouldn't have gone with them."

"They would have dragged you."

"I would have fought them."

"They would have bound you."

"I would have gotten away."

"It would be impossible."

"I would make it possible."

"Is there any reason behind your adamancy?" Bookman asked, because he hadn't heard such a determined tone since back when they first met and Lavi had been trying to prove something without seeming he was attempting to do so.

"Because I want to be a Bookman," Lavi answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. His gaze was somewhere else, directed far beyond the countryside passing by them through the glass, but his words were there, anchored in that compartment.

And that was as good a reason as any.

**pqpq**

Sorry about the long wait again. I had a writer's block for a while and then college got in the way and everything, so…yeah. A lot of people have been all "Why does this take you so long to update?" and everything, and it's because I'm pathetic and do an insane amount of historical research for this fic. I'm also going back through the DGM chapters/episodes to find even the slightest hints that were dropped about other characters or about the Bookman Clan. There's very little, so a lot of it has to be made up, but with enough room to make sense if something should be thrown in later. So that's why it seems like forever in between updates. I just felt like defending myself for that one…

But, have no fear! I've been writing backwards, so I have the next few chapters pretty much solidly done so there won't be such a big wait, I promise.

**Sneak Peak, Chapter 26**: Bookman and Lavi run into an old associate of Bookman's, and there are some interesting consequences...

Give me love, peeps. God knows I need some after those midterms screwed me over D:

**Dhampir72**


	26. The Necronomicon

**Author's Note**: I'm sorry about the delay. I know I sound like a broken record, but a lot has happened: the death of my friend's mom, finals, four weeks of being sick with a sinus infection and double ear infection. It's just been crappy. But this chapter will make it better, yeah? –crosses fingers—

**pqpq**

Belgrade was cold at this time of year, almost cold enough to be snowing outside. Or maybe it was too cold to snow and that was the reason everything felt so miserable. The wind was sharp and biting as it whipped through clothing into the very skin and bones of a person. It was a wretched time of year, in Bookman's opinion, and he'd much rather have been somewhere warm drinking tea and not tromping around outside in the middle of an isolated Ice Age.

"It's f-freezing," Lavi put in helpfully. If Bookman wouldn't have been keeping his hands warm inside his cloak pockets, he would have smacked the back of Lavi's head for pointing out the obvious.

"What an accurate observation," Bookman replied dryly, slapping him verbally with his words. "Tell me, how did you ever manage to figure that out?"

"Somehow I'm picking up on this vibe that someone's in a bad mood," Lavi answered, sounding rather cheerful despite it. It had to be his new persona, Ender, who was the cause for Lavi's altered personality. "There's no reason to be. I mean, it could always be worse!" They were standing on the corner waiting to cross the street, when he said this just as a carriage raced by. The front wheel splashed through a puddle of melted snow, spraying them with the sick-looking watery slush that had been in the gutter. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the rear wheel did it again, soaking them through. So now they were cold _and_ wet. Bookman actually did take his hand out of his pocket to smack Lavi in the head.

"Finagle's Law (1)," Bookman growled at him, angrily stomping across the slippery road with Lavi not far behind him. "So never say that it could be worse."

"I thought it was positive thinking…" Lavi muttered from behind him, ringing out his hair.

"Positive thinking gets you this," Bookman replied, indicating their wet clothing. "And the Law of Dynamic Negatives makes it happen."

"Why can't you say jinx like everyone else?" Lavi grumbled, mostly to himself, so Bookman didn't dignify it with a response. They were almost to their destination, he knew, because they were in the Vracar municipality, passing the plateau that shared the same name, where the Cathedral of Saint Sava (2) sat like a lord overlooking the city. Its huge dome-shaped roof could be seen for miles around, and flocks of people were crowded toward it for service. "I mean, jinx is a good word…" Lavi continued, still behind Bookman, mumbling to no one in particular.

"It's an inaccurate word in this connotation. You're using it superstitiously," Bookman replied, just to reply. Up ahead, the place they had been looking for came into view: the National Library of Serbia. Tall pillars held up an intricate roof, the structure looking more like something out of Athens than Belgrade.

"Is this it?" Lavi asked, forgetting their previous conversation as he looked at the building curiously. Although it was intricate and somewhat foreign-looking, the library was small and unremarkable in a strange sort of way. "It's kind of…little."

"Don't let looks deceive you," Bookman said, walking up the main steps toward the entrance. Carved into the stone above the name _Narodna Biblioteka Srbije_ was a small, circular symbol with the Bookman crest: the tome, the compass rose, the quill and scroll, and the balanced scale. Lavi made a sound like "Ohhh…" when he spotted this, realizing that this library was affiliated with their clan. Bookman pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, boots making a harsh noise in the marble hall. The inside entry way to the library was narrow, but tall, with every sound and breath echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Golden light illuminated the inside space somewhat dimly from oil lamps hanging on the walls. Although a little too dark for Bookman's liking, he made no comment and walked into the main antechamber.

There were a few people at the mahogany desks, reading or writing. Many of them appeared to be teachers or older students from the nearby university. Bookman paid them no mind, turning toward the right, Lavi's slippery footsteps following him. Past the Western Civilization section, there was a circular room, about big enough for five people to stand in comfortably, and Bookman walked into said area. From his cloak, he produced a small stamp of the Bookman crest from a pocket on his belt; it fit perfectly in the negative indent on the floor. Lavi stood in front of him in the doorway, looking at him curiously as Bookman turned it twice to the right. His expression turned surprised when the floor began to sink, a marble platform moving downwards into the dark.

"Are you coming or are you going to stand there like an idiot?" Bookman asked, causing Lavi to hurry forward and onto the descending platform before it became too much of a drop. They sank into the darkness for a while, the light above their heads getting smaller and smaller by the moment until it was just a pinprick of gold. Lavi took in a shaking breath beside him, probably due to the chill in the air as they moved further underground.

Soon, the edges of the platform turned white and then a full force of bright light hit them as the marble transport came to a stop. They were in a cavernous room decorated in Baroque style, but lit with bright fluorescent lights similar to East Wing. Bookman pulled his seal from the floor and pocketed it. Lavi startled and scampered off the dais when it began to ascend, hurrying to hide behind Bookman again. His fifth persona was quite the timid thing, it seemed.

"Welcome, Bookman," said a scathing voice. A tall man with a long face similar to that of a donkey approached them. Long gray hair settled over his shoulders like the mane of a lion; an old lion with a bad temper.

"Baqer," Bookman replied, able to keep the disdain out of his voice only thanks to years of practice. Baqer was one of his Master's old favorites, which had always irked Bookman more than he liked to admit. Who knew that the disgusting fool had acquired a rank in this establishment?

There was a tense silence, in which neither of the older men would say the usual words of conversation between two people who had not seen each other in a while. Neither of them would say "good to see you again" or ask "how have the years treated you?" because Baqer was an arrogant asshole and Bookman could have cared less if he had been dying of some painful disease, like syphilis. The uneasy air between them was certainly felt by the few other people in the room, who pretended to be going about their business as if they weren't affected by the heavy animosity that hung above their heads like a storm cloud.

"It appears you have an apprentice now, Bookman," observed Baqer, his black, beetle like eyes flickering downwards for a moment to regard Lavi, who was still hiding behind Bookman. "Tiny little thing, isn't he?" The tone in which he spoke those words and the slight curvature to his lips made Bookman's vigilance raise a few levels. He recalled another reason why he disliked Baqer so much: his infatuation with little boys. Maybe Lavi sensed this perversion as well, because he cowered further behind Bookman, going as far as even gripping the old man's cloak nervously.

"I seek Zebulon. Is he present?" Bookman asked, not wanting to spend any more time in Baqer's company than he had to.

"Right this way," Baqer sneered, turning on his heel to begin stalking down a corridor with long strides. Bookman followed with Lavi tagging along safely behind him. After a few moments, Baqer ushered them into a well-furnished room with a hearth consuming one entire side of it. A portrait of a heavily wooded area displayed a man walking through the dark depths hung above the fireplace. The rest of the walls were covered with hundreds of shelves, each supporting many volumes of all shapes and sizes. "I will _fetch_ him for you," Baqer said, mock bowing before exiting the room with a quick slam of the door.

"_Hun dan_ (3)," Lavi observed casually, moving to go sit in front of the fire. Bookman agreed too much to admonish him for the swear. There were several sofas and comfortable chairs close to the fireplace, so Bookman removed his wet cloak and draped it over the drying rack near the hearth before sitting down on the closest recliner to think. If Baqer was here, would his reason for coming here be kept secret? Surely Zebulon would not indulge the purpose of Bookman's visit, as he was a respectable man. But Bookman had been here enough times to know that the walls had eyes and ears, and that nothing was truly safe.

"Ender," Bookman said, making Lavi turn to regard him with curious attentiveness. When gestured closer, Lavi scooted along the soft rug to Bookman's chair, still with that look upon his face; Bookman knew then that Lavi would truly do anything for him to please him. To be praised by Bookman was Lavi's purpose at this stage in his life, which was something the old man was willing to give in reward for unconditional obedience. "Do you know why we're here?"

"For…something important," Lavi replied, clueless.

"For something very important," Bookman said, continuing in quiet Nepali: "An ancient text that dates to even before the Old Testament. Although the original was lost in the Great Flood, three copies exist in the known world, one held and protected here for the past 500 years."

"What is it?" Lavi asked, switching from English as well. He looked so excited at the prospect of knowing something that others did not.

"The Necronomicon (4)," Bookman replied. The entire room seemed to shudder with those words, going quite still; even the flames that had been crackling in the fireplace didn't make a sound. Lavi must have felt it too, because he stopped mid-breath and glanced around quickly.

"The…Necronomicon?" Lavi repeated. "What's that?"

"It translates roughly to 'The Book Concerning the Dead', reminiscent of the ancient Egyptian's scrollwork texts on the same subject," Bookman answered. "This book, however, is a much more comprehensive work that may hold the answers to millennial old questions."

"If it's that important, why haven't you looked at it before now?" Lavi asked. It was a valid question, so Bookman was willing to answer.

"Because of the rarity of the book, it is difficult to consult," Bookman replied. It was only the half-truth, but Lavi didn't need to know of such things. Although the young boy by his feet knew that the Bookmen carried secrets, he didn't know some of the finer details of the occupation. He did not know of the contract that had yet to be renewed… "And because of its age, all of the three volumes in existence are in varying states of preservation. Many of the pages are presumably illegible because of this decay." Lavi nodded in understanding, probably sensing that was all Bookman was going to tell him at this point.

"Are they going to let us look at it?" Lavi asked, moving down another topic of discussion.

"If the book still remains here, there is no reason why they should prevent us from doing so," Bookman answered.

"Even though that creeper guy doesn't like you?" Lavi inquired.

"He holds no power here," Bookman said, in harsh English syllables.

"I do hope you're not talking about me," said a voice from their right. The door had opened softly sometime toward the end of their conversation. A man stood in the doorway in modest indigo robes, his gray beard combed neatly around a truly genial smile. Bookman stood up from his chair to greet the man known only as Zebulon. Closing the door behind him, Zebulon entered the room, continuing: "Because then I would have to go back and revise my job description."

"I assure you, there is no need for _you_ to do such a thing," Bookman replied, putting emphasis on the word. Zebulon must have done the math and figured out whom Bookman was referring to, because he smiled and shook his head.

"As much as I think he's an arrogant snake, Baqer is unfortunately dead useful," Zebulon answered, walking forward. "But we're not here to gossip like bored housewives, are we?" He extended his arm to shake hands with Bookman, who could see Lavi watching them out of the corner of his eye. His apprentice had risen with him when Zebulon had entered, but had placed himself slightly behind Bookman, either out of shyness or respect, the old man was uncertain. "You're here for a reason, I gather. Care to enlighten me?" As Zebulon seated himself, Bookman caught sight of a child of nearly Lavi's height and stature beside the other man. Small and scraggly, the boy kept his eyes downward in obedient submission. But as Zebulon showed no sign of acknowledgment towards the child, Bookman easily did the same.

"I am here to see _that_ book," Bookman replied, not using the real title. It made many people uncomfortable to speak the name aloud, as the book was rumored to be cursed. Although Bookman had no fear of this phenomenon, he made allowances for others, especially the man who had the power to give or deny him access to said text. Zebulon made a thoughtful face as he stared into the fire for a long time, perhaps thinking of the thick leather book kept in the deepest of the archives.

"Certainly you are referring to Images of the Laws of the Dead, are you not?" Zebulon asked, using the alternate title used by the more literal of translators.

"Yes," Bookman answered.

"Why do you seek it?" Zebulon inquired, turning his head to study Bookman. Despite the fact that Zebulon was the one man Bookman considered himself to truly be on an equal plane of intelligence with, his stares were never hard enough to make Bookman feel uncomfortable, something he was grateful for. When Zebulon realized his searching stare wasn't enough, he relaxed a bit and smiled again. "No need to tell, just an intellectual curiosity dying to be sated."

"The records are currently pointing toward the history regarding Necromancy. I only seek it to confirm certain patterns and use it to explain evidence found in our past travels," Bookman answered, knowing that being too vague would cause too many problems. Zebulon nodded as Bookman spoke, the wheels turning in his mind almost audible.

"Perhaps…it's best to leave _that_ book out of things," Zebulon said after a moment of careful consideration.

"You truly don't believe in the superstitions," Bookman replied, not believing that such an educated man could hold rumors and folklore to be truths.

"Curses exist, Bookman," Zebulon said, leaning over the arm of his chair to look at him seriously.

"I do not doubt that," Bookman answered, as he had seen many things in his travels and could not discount witchcraft as a very real practice that yielded results. Whether they be positive or frighteningly negative, witchcraft was not something to be scoffed at. But every spell, curse, and charm died with the caster. A curse that lasted for centuries was something a little dubious in Bookman's opinion. So he said so: "But a curse that could be retained in an object without a caster is quite unlikely. Even if it truly was a strong magician who placed the spell upon the book, it would have worn off after time." Bookman folded his hands on his knee as he put forth this information. "Besides, only copies exist, as the original is still unaccounted for. Are there three separate curses on these books? Highly improbable. It is merely the human mind devising its own dysfunctional perception of reality, using curses and spells to explain negative aspects in life." These statements of fact had no effect on Zebulon, who continued to stare at him with stubborn adamancy.

"The item itself is not cursed," Zebulon replied. "It is the actual words that make up the book. The information held in that tome is something that no one should know. Trifling between the different planes of existence should not be done, by anyone. But the people who have read this book _have_ transgressed these boundaries between life and death. The knowledge that comes from this book is too great and too dangerous to be taken lightly. No such thing as curses, I think not."

"There is no curse. Man makes his own curses with his own foolishness," Bookman said, coldly. If there was one thing human were good for, it was making their own troubles. "Now, _I_ intend on using the text merely for the sake of understanding certain phenomena that have become increasingly more apparent in the past few years. I do not intend to speak with the dead, nor do I intend to use the book in any Necromantic practices. It is purely for research and the records, which are my duty to record with knowledgeable accuracy." Zebulon watched him carefully as he spoke, leaning back his chair when Bookman had finished, staring up at the painting above the hearth.

"Do you know what the painting represents?" Zebulon asked, pointing at the picture. Giving the canvas more of an appraising eye, Bookman took in the dark image: the form of a naked man walking through a seemingly endless black forest.

"The search for self or knowledge by those lost in the metaphorical forest of life's hardships and distractions," Bookman answered. The painting reminded him of a similar one that was in the copy of Dante's The Divine Comedy that Lavi had been reading ages ago back when they had first started out on their journey.

"On the literary level, do you know what the forest represents?" Zebulon inquired, knowing that Bookman was no fan of literature which had no historical significance. Without waiting for an answer, the other man continued: "It can mean a number of things. Mostly the bad things, such as the earthly troubles like destruction and sin, but it can also be interpreted on the mystical level as well. Negative aspects of nature, these can range from magic and the devil to fear and the unknown, even as far as sexuality and violent impulses of the human psyche." This crock of metaphors and symbolism was just the reason Bookman didn't read literature often; too speculative. "This forest is something that every person must walk through and not be tempted. That is the only way they can emerge enlightened on the other side." Zebulon thought he was making an intelligent point, but unfortunately, he was failing to do so in Bookman's opinion.

"Inquiry is not the same thing as temptation in this case," Bookman said. "Temptation leads to selfish indulgence and greed. Inquiry, however, leads to knowledge and understanding."

"Not all knowledge is good," Zebulon replied. "And some things are better left not understood."

"Not for a Bookman," Bookman replied. Zebulon looked at him searchingly for another moment more before smiling at the conclusion drawn.

"Indeed. You speak truths," he said, settling back again with a friendly wink. "So I'll make the exception just this once."

**pqpq**

After Zebulon had given them a quick tour (apparently this affiliate of the clan was expanding under the city, so there were numerous underground complexes that were still being constructed, which meant that a lot had changed since the last time Bookman had visited) and shown them to the guest quarters (to drop of their things and change out of their still-damp clothes) before leading them to a small, decrepit looking lift. Zebulon and his silent apprentice went inside fearlessly, but Bookman and Lavi stared at the rickety, unsafe transport with suspicion.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Zebulon asked, holding the gate open for them. Bookman could have sworn he heard Lavi mutter under his breath 'Sorry, I left it in my other pants'. Zebulon just continued to smile cheerfully. "Oh, come now. A little element of danger never hurt anyone." Bookman felt like countering how that element of danger had resulted in both he and his apprentice being thrown in prison at one point, but decided not to comment.

Eventually, they did get on the lift, which took them at a frightening speed downwards. When it arrived at their destination, both Bookman and Lavi stumbled out of the elevator in relief that it was over. Zebulon laughed heartily at their discomfort, leading them down a rather dimly lit hall toward the one room at the very end of it. Inside, it was even darker, forcing Zebulon to light a candelabrum to bring some light to walk by.

"This is it," Zebulon said, standing with the light source before a square, glass case. Inside the protective cube, there sat a brown book with rust colored pages; a piece of red string was wrapped around the tome as if it were some morbid kind of present. "Hold this," Zebulon instructed to his apprentice, who wordlessly took the candelabra from his master and held it steady before him. With this light, Zebulon murmured a few words as he lifted the glass cover from over the Necronomicon. There was a soft hiss and a chill that swept over all of them, quite physical as it nearly blew the candles out. Bookman stared at the volume before him on the simple pedestal, something like secretive whispering filling his ears. "I told you," Zebulon said, his eyes appearing black in the limited light. "_Cursed_."

And when Bookman lifted that book from the stand, he almost felt like he believed in curses.

**pqpq**

"I don't like it," Lavi said, later that night when they were in their chambers. Zebulon had been kind enough to lend them the book for as long as they needed, and Bookman was taking advantage of the privacy of their room to look over it. He was glad he took the opportunity to do so in a much more cheery atmosphere, as the warmth from the fire kept the nearly tangible anxiety at bay as Bookman looked through the Necronomicon. And Bookman had a right to feel somewhat nervous handling the text, as it was old and delicate, but more so because the book was not covered in leather, like he had first presumed, nor the pages brown with age. No; it was unmistakably bound in human skin, the edges of the pages sealed with a mixture that included blood. "The Devil's Book" it was called by some, and now Bookman knew why.

"Why?" Bookman asked, working through the first few pages, taking fervent notes as he did so.

"I dunno. It gives me a bad feeling," Lavi answered. "Almost like it's…I dunno, watching us."

"Books do not watch, nor do they judge," Bookman said, attempting to put both of their unease at bay.

"Whatever you say," Lavi replied, curling up by the fire. As he went quiet, Bookman read the ramblings of the man who was known only as the Mad Arab. He spoke of the Old Ones, an ancient clan of people who were the descendants of "the Man who saved Humanity". Only once within the text was that man named, and he was called Noah.

The Mad Arab had witnessed this clan's rituals, called them "devils" and "godless heathens". He went on to speak of a scene that had driven him to his plight of insanity: the Necromancy performed by "the Man of Ages". Although there was little to say of the Necromancer, the ritual that the man spoke of was the resurrection of a human soul into that of a demon.

"_By lightning, Satan brought forth the Dead. _

_And the Dead walked and talked like the Living, but had the face of a Devil._

_From the Grief of the Living, the Dead returned to The World_

_And ate the faces of the Living and wore them as Their Own._

_And, like Devils, they followed the Man of the Ages and His Will_

_For they were the mindless Dead, His Army to bring the End of Days._

_What can the Living do now, when We cannot see the Devil because_

_He wears Our Image?"_

The passage written there explained the birth of akuma, but what of the Earl of Millennium and his Clan of Noah? Reading further, he gained little of an answer:

"_There were Fourteen._

_All bore the same Gold Eyes of Their Creator, the Man who saved Humanity._

_The One known as Noah was Kind, was He not? _

_To Save those from The Great Flood of Time?_

_But His descendants were of no Kindness._

_Fourteen in League with the Man of Ages to bring the Dead back into The World. _

_Why would They do such a Deed?_

_When They were Human, like those They destroyed?"_

Bookman knew all of this already, from what his own master had shared with him upon revealing the secrets of the hidden world. The clan of Noah, in league with the Earl of Millennium, was descendant of the widely-believed "mythical" Noah. They were the second generation of humans after Adam and Eve; the ones who brought forth humanity from its darkest hour and began restoring the race. They were first humans who came from the man chosen by God, which made them superior to others in all ways imaginable. Fantastically, terrible ways. But they were not demons, no matter what their capabilities or their cruelness. Still human, these reported "apostles of God".

"Anything useful yet?" Lavi asked, sounding bored behind him.

"Nothing we didn't already know," Bookman answered, moving past the ramblings of the Mad Arab, moving through a section on spells and curses. A section on runes was rather interesting, with strange symbols that Bookman could not identify to be in any living (or dead) culture. They were long and straight, narrow figures, moving through a straight line, as if someone had crossed them out. In some odd way, it resembled the grand staff one would normally find on sheet music for some kind of instrument. Pushing that thought aside, Bookman continued to read into the late hours, listening as Lavi's breathing softened into an even rhythm with sleep.

When Bookman came across the section of Armageddon, he was greatly disappointed again, but for different reasons. As the text began describing the prophecy behind the "War that would Rage between Light and Dark" at "the End of the Era" it stopped when, on the following pages, the paper had turned black and illegible with age. The only thing that Bookman could make out was toward the bottom of one of the subsequent pages. It was merely a few words, but it was enough: "the War behind the War".

So that time was coming. Bookman put his quill down with a sigh, drawing the unfortunate conclusion that manifested itself before his very eyes.

The end of the world was upon them.

**pqpq**

"Enlightening read, Bookman?" Zebulon asked, the next morning when the two of them were in the room from the day before having tea as Bookman returned the text. He had wrapped it up in a spare bit of cloth, knowing that Zebulon wasn't too keen on touching it, which Bookman hadn't been either.

"As enlightening as scorched pages with illegible information can be," Bookman answered.

"Ah, nonsense. I'm sure you were able to gather something, lest this visit be meaningless," Zebulon replied.

"The only knowledge I was able to gather is that I am in need of one or both of the other copies to continue my research," Bookman said.

"And do you know where you might find another one?" Zebulon inquired, taking a sip of his tea.

"I have a contact that may be able to give me a location on one of them," Bookman answered, hoping said contact was still alive for the purpose of his investigation.

"Very good, then," Zebulon replied, staring at the book on the table before them. He looked a bit uncomfortable with it being so close to the tea. "Most peculiar that you couldn't find anything useful from that thing. Baqer was able to learn much from it." Bookman felt something cold take hold of him.

"Baqer? You let him…examine this text?" Bookman asked, somewhat incredulously. There had been so many things inside the volume: mind control, alternate reality construction, hypnosis. Not to mention curses used exclusively for torture and inflicting pain upon the victim.

"Of course. He has complete control over our most exclusive archives, so he has read all the material we've protected," Zebulon replied, obviously not seeing the problem with this. "There is no need for such distrust. I assure you, he is a trustworthy man, despite some character flaws." Bookman snorted. Baqer was one giant character flaw in his opinion; full of greed, malice, and perversion. His teacup made a clattering sound against the saucer, causing Zebulon to look over at him with concern. "Are you all right?"

But Bookman didn't answer, already halfway to the door, the Necronomicon in his hand. Baqer had a sick fascination with young boys, and Bookman had left Lavi, sleeping and alone, in their unlocked room.

**pqpq**

The first thing he noticed was that the door was ajar. The second thing Bookman noticed were the noises coming from the room. It was Lavi, he knew, and it sounded as if he was choking. Without thinking the situation through, Bookman pushed open the door. Papers littered the floor; the parchment that Bookman had been scribbling away at so quickly the previous night. But the mess wasn't what attracted his attention; it was Baqer, straddling a thrashing body on the bed with his hand around Lavi's throat. He looked up when Bookman entered, eyes wildly excited as Lavi struggled beneath him.

"Bookman. Always coming to ruin the fun," Baqer said, with a disappointed groan. He moved off the bed, releasing Lavi's neck. But despite that, Lavi continued to writhe against the rumpled bed sheets as if he were still being strangled. Baqer looked from Bookman back to Lavi with a morbidly concerned smile. "Ah, don't worry. I've let him up for air a few times. But watching him struggle like this is so much _fun_." He must have guessed Bookman's unasked question, because he continued to smile, as if he were a child who knew something that everyone else didn't. "Amazing how the mind works. His body is convinced he's drowning even when he isn't. Remarkable how the body can react to a completely contrived, mental situation, is it not?" Lavi was gasping, clawing at his throat as he tried desperately to breathe under water that did not exist. "And I owe it all to that spectacular book." His eyes were on the Necronomicon in Bookman's hand; hungered and frenzied. Bookman was attempting to keep his focus on Baqer, but it kept straying to Lavi, whose movements were becoming weaker and more sluggish as his body was deprived of oxygen.

"Release him," Bookman commanded, in a steady, even tone.

"Only after we find out what you're truly afraid of," Baqer said, with a malicious grin. Before Bookman could react, his mind left his body and he was suddenly somewhere else. It was nowhere he had been before, and yet, at the same time, it was everywhere he _had_ been before. A dark, underground place; grimy and dingy that reeked of death and decay. It was cold, his breath rising before him on the visual plane as he walked uncertainly through the darkness. But even with the limited light, he could see them: the children that Bookman had seen in his travels. They were all in varying states of death or dying, crimson blood smeared on the cobblestone floor, their eyes looking up at him with empty gazes. And even though he was a Bookman, who could look upon the most grisly scenes without flinching, the old man couldn't help the heaviness that overcame his heart at the sight of the small bodies strewn before him. Baqer had somehow figured out Bookman's inability to think indifferently when it came to innocent children, and exploited that mercilessly. These were not created images, but phantoms of the past, projected before his eyes against him in this separate reality.

He attempted to focus, to bring himself back to the room where he had been. It was a simple task in the most basic theories of mind control: if the person knew that the world they encountered was false, all they had to do was disregard everything that made it reality. Cut off the senses--sight, hearing, smell--and focus on the previous place rooted in the actual plane of existence. It should have been easy, as it was easy, but Bookman could not pull himself from this living nightmare.

It was his weakness, he knew. When his eyes were closed, he could still see them, still hear their small calls _please, please…help me…_terrified in his ears. If Bookman blocked out all sight and sound, he could feel himself stepping on their tiny bodies, slipping in their blood…Nothing helped, so he employed the use of his eyes again, analyzing his surroundings for some means of escape, forcing stoicism upon himself as he looked through the sea of bodies. It didn't help when Bookman spotted Chi among the corpses, a twisted figure of blood and burns, eyes wide open, just as he had been the day Bookman had found him in that shallow grave.

Bookman knew what Baqer was doing, and he expected it, which was the only reason he retained his composure upon finding Lavi at the end of the long tunnel. His apprentice was on his back, lying with his bloodied face turned away from Bookman. There was evidence that he had struggled, ripped fingernails on crimson hands, red welts that littered his arms from attempting to defend himself from whatever had attacked him. But what affected Bookman the most—made his damn heart nearly stop beating—was the position Lavi was in, his torn clothes and the bruises that started on his bare upper thighs which disappeared under the shredded remains of his cloak. He had been violated.

Bookman gritted his teeth. Baqer knew—the bastard _fucking_ knew—that one of the most unforgivable acts in Bookman's mind was rape, especially when that sexual violence was inflicted upon a child. _It's not real_ Bookman had to tell himself, not wanting to near the still body of his previously lively apprentice. _None of this is real_. He attempted to focus, draw himself out of that cold place. Finding the inconsistencies in his surroundings made it easier: Lavi's hair was a different shade of red, the cloak he wore dissimilar to that of the one he normally wore, the boots on his feet only having three buckles when there were truly four. All of these things concentrated upon even blocked out the pathetic whimpers from the other children around him and Bookman could feel the warmth of the fire in the bed chambers back in reality. But before he could return to wakefulness, a cold hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, preventing him from returning.

"Why'd you let this happen to me, gramps?" asked the illusion before him with Lavi's voice. Blood covered the right side of his face, his only green eye staring at Bookman with questioning. "Why'd you let him hurt me?" Another inquiry as a tear fell down his dirty, bruised cheek. Bookman could feel the warmth of the fire receding and knew he had to do something quickly to get back there. Pushing Lavi back to the floor, Bookman removed himself from the small grip and stood up. He ignored the sounds of the children continuing to cry behind him, disregarded the painfully obvious injuries on Lavi's too-thin body.

"If you're attempting to throw me off by distracting me this way, _at least do it properly_," Bookman said, wrenching himself from the other world and into his own reality. It was like breaking through heavy water and taking a big breath of air. He was on his knees in the doorway, the Necronomicon still in his grasp, and Baqer was once again on the bed on top of Lavi, his intent perfectly clear. What worried Bookman the most was that Lavi's struggles had stopped, and he was merely lying there under Baqer's perverted hands. Dropping the volume on the floor, Bookman reached into his cloak and found a kunai dagger, which he threw with practiced precision, stabbing Baqer in the shoulder. The man fell backwards over the foot of the bed and onto the floor, writhing in agony as Bookman got up and went to where Lavi lay, still as some of the children he had seen in his nightmare. He was cold, but not dead; still breathing, although so softly Bookman could barely see his chest rise and fall with life.

"Wake up," Bookman commanded, shaking his small shoulder. He needed to make sure Lavi was free of Baqer's control before confronting the other man. But Lavi did not stir and Bookman gave him a resounding slap across the cheek, waking his apprentice from wherever he had been. "I said wake up," Bookman repeated, as he watched Lavi blink a few times in confusion. Then he sat up, holding his hand to his cheek as if he had been rudely offended.

"H-hey!"

"Hay is for horses, idiot," Bookman replied.

"Why'd you slap me?!" Lavi asked, rubbing the red skin.

"Because you don't listen," Bookman answered casually, not showing his relief on the outside.

"W-What?!" Lavi asked, still looking perplexed at what he probably presumed to be one of Bookman's random attempts at discipline. But before Bookman could answer, Lavi was swept off the bed by an invisible force and thrown against the wall with enough power that he didn't move once he had hit the floor. Bookman was moved by the same spell, only to the hard wood of the now-closed door. His breath came out in a painful gasp when he collided with the mahogany door. After all, Bookman was getting a bit more fragile with age. But although Baqer was nearly the same age, he seemed to have no problem rising to his full height, Bookman's dagger still protruding from his shoulder.

"It will take more than that to get rid of me, old friend," Baqer said, in some strange version of courtesy. He ripped the blade from his shoulder without wincing, coming closer to Bookman; his blood ran black, dying the front of his robe. The invisible force still pinned Bookman to the wall, rendering him incapable of moving. The Necronomicon was the cause of Baqer's power: it had given him knowledge that was too great for him. Would this "curse" devour him as it did the Mad Arab? "Surely you've come to understand the power of that book," Baqer continued, grinning maniacally. "It's a wondrous tool and now I know _all the secrets_." Bookman couldn't understand how, when half the book had been lost to decay. "You're wondering how, aren't you? How could I read a book that's in such condition? I'll tell you." Baqer summoned the book to him, taking it in his outstretched hands like a long-lost lover, black eyes like feverishly burning coals. "It spoke to me. It speaks to everyone, did you not hear it?" _The whispers in the dark of insanity long past, poisoned words against charred parchment paper __**the War behind the War**_. Oh yes, Bookman had heard it, but would never admit to a book _speaking_ of all things. "Well, no matter. I was going to make quick, but now I've changed my mind." The force increased, invisible pinpricks of what felt like red hot needles piercing his skin. Bookman did well not to make a sound despite the pain. "And when I'm done with you, I'll send your apprentice after you to the other world. After I'm through with him, of course."

"You're not touching me, asshole."

The grin on Baqer's face was replaced with shock after a moment, and the pain faded into nothingness as the force dropped Bookman to the floor. Why his old nemesis had stopped was made quite clear when Bookman saw the brass spire protruding from Baqer's chest. Black blood oozed from the wound before Baqer's body suddenly crumpled on the floor, turning to dust. Lavi was left standing there, the fireplace stoker in his hands, looking shocked at either what he had just done or what he had just seen. The poker clattered to the floor as Lavi took a step back from the pile of ashes that had once been a man.

"Holy shit," Lavi breathed, leaning against the side of the bed. "Am I tripping, or did that just happen?"

"That just happened," Bookman replied, rubbing his throat.

"Holy _shit_," Lavi repeated, sinking down to sit on the ground. "I just killed that guy…"

"I assure you, it was well warranted," Bookman answered truthfully. After all, if Lavi had not stepped forward… Standing up as he shook dust off the hem of his coat, Bookman said: "And now it looks like Zebulon will be seeking to employ another Archive Master." Lavi wasn't paying attention to him, sitting on the floor with an almost blank look on his face. Bookman gave an irritable sigh, lighting a cigarette and not caring if anyone had a problem with his smoking inside. He was very bad at this "consoling" thing he knew he should probably do. "So you killed someone—" (what a horrible way to start off, he realized), "—but it was for survival. If you hadn't, he would have killed _us_."

"I know," Lavi replied quietly. He wasn't sad or afraid, not even in shock. Lavi was merely thinking, Bookman could tell; probably about how he had never taken a life before, which was a natural thing to ponder after incidents such as these. But the unfortunate truth was that sometimes it was necessary to survive, especially in the life of a Bookman.

"You did nothing wrong," Bookman said, just for clarity's sake as he placed his hand on top of Lavi's head in a comforting sort of way. "Nothing at all."

**pqpq**

Aw, I love them so much. Hurrah for the good Bookman and Lavi moments that are adorable :D

And hurrah for plot! Sort of, right? Yaaaay, plot! -Nyquil induced hyperactivity-

**Stuff you might want to know (haven't done this in a while, huh?):**

1. Finagle's Law of Dynamic Negatives (a corollary to Murphy's Law) – "Anything that can go wrong, will—and at the worst possible moment". Although it was not created until the mid 1900's, I found it funny and appropriate for the situation. It's an AU 19th century anyway, so sue me for amusing myself.

2. The Cathedral of Saint Sava – In real history, this cathedral hadn't been constructed yet. It was just a small church on that site where Saint Sava's (the founder of the Serbian Orthodox Church) remains were burned. Nowadays, it's a huge building that's very pretty. For the sake of this story, it exists in all its glory for a paragraph or two.

_3. Hun_ _dan_ – "jerk" or "bastard" in Chinese (Mandarin, I think)

4. The Necronomicon – a fictitious work reportedly written by H.P. Lovecraft. It contains supposedly ancient spells and rituals along stories of myth, magic, Armageddon, and the Occult. In this story, I'm using it as a sort of "history textbook" for some answers in the series. Wikipedia for more information on the actual book or check your public library to peruse a copy…if you dare.

The name "Ender" means "extremely rare" in Turkish.

The name "Zebulon" means "honoured" in Hebrew.

**Next Time**

Bookman seeks out the second copy of the Necronomicon in hopes of finding answers. But to do so requires a sacrifice on Lavi's part. "What do you _mean_ when you say I'm a _girl_?"

Oho. So many lulz from that.

Also, regarding **updates**. I'm trying to become more regular with this story!

Please vote in my poll on my bio page! Your votes determine when the next chapter comes out!

Thanks for all your love and patience.

**Dhampir72**


	27. Old Acquaintances

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the comments, guys. I really appreciate the people who take the time to review. It makes the painstaking hours researching this story worth it.

**pqpq**

It was quite the headache explaining to Zebulon that his Archive Keeper spontaneously transformed into a pile of ashes. One would think that the actual death of the person in question would bring up a million of impossible inquiries. However, with Zebulon, the incident was something easily accepted and (instead of questioning the validity of the occurrence) the other man persisted with his arguments about curses as he had his apprentice sweep Baqer's remains into a hand-held dustbin. And since Zebulon hadn't asked specifically how the man in said dustbin had perished, Bookman left out the fact that it had been Lavi who delivered Baqer's end. The redhead looked relieved that he was left out of the conversation and stayed quietly in one of the shadowy recesses of the room.

In the end, the only way to get Zebulon to speak normally and intelligently again was for Bookman to take custody of the Necronomicon, which he did, wrapping it securely in a swath of fabric to preserve the wretched thing. Then it was off to the den for the two of them to discuss the situation like coherent adults: with hot tea and scones before the handsome fire.

"That book isn't something to trifle with," Zebulon said, for what had to be the twentieth time. If Bookman had a dinar (1) for every time the other man had blamed misfortune on a curse, he'd have a lot of money.

"Which explains why you've given it to me," Bookman replied.

"You needed it, did you not?" Zebulon asked, putting a three cubes too-much sugar into his tea.

"You just don't want it anymore," Bookman observed aloud.

"After what it did to Baqer, can you blame a man?" Zebulon asked with a ghost of the cocky grin he had worn in his youth.

"I presume not," Bookman replied.

"Besides, you enjoy first editions," Zebulon said.

"It's truly a second edition," Boomkan answered, as the tightly wrapped book left in his chambers was merely one of the only three copies in the world. "But that is beside the matter."

"You didn't find what you were looking for?" Zebulon inquired, before taking a sip of his tea.

"No," Bookman answered, trying not to sound too disappointed. After all, it was his job to find out the information he needed, and nothing would stand in his way from retrieving this knowledge he required for the records. It was what a Bookman _did_. "However, I am curious to hunt down the other two copies. Have you any idea where they might be?"

"Hmm…" said Zebulon, leaning back in his chair as he thought about it: "I do not know for sure, but perhaps Kendra would be able to help you." Bookman recalled the woman in question immediately, as her character was not easily forgotten. By now she was in her mid-fifties and most likely still bitter over the death of her young son, who had been killed in a riot during the Crimean War some twenty years earlier. The last time Bookman had seen her had been in Britain two or three summers ago, where she had become a personal physician for an ill mistress. Her knowledge of medicine was questionable (as Bookman knew she used the Craft for most of her healing), but effective. If Bookman recalled, he might be correct in the assumption that Kendra's employer vacationed in Greece during the winter months, as the tropical climate near the Mediterranean seemed to be much kinder to her fragile health.

"I believe her employer resides in the south of Greece during the winter," Bookman said, but mostly to himself. It was right on route, as Bookman had to stop at the university in Athens anyway. And if Kendra was there, then perhaps she would have more answers in the way of the information obscured in the battered copy of the Necronomicon Bookman now possessed. "I will contact her."

"Very well then," Zebulon replied, taking another sip of his tea. "But until then, I implore you to remain here for a few more days. Word from the outside says the war is getting worse and I shouldn't want you walking into the middle of it unnecessarily. In front or behind, but never right in the fray, am I correct?"

"The Bookman way," he agreed.

**pqpq**

The next week was spent researching. Behind the current war—that the papers were referring to the Russo-Turkish war of 1877—there were phenomena that could only be explained as the Earl's doing. There were revolts springing up suddenly without provocation, where the Ottoman Empire wasn't even occupying, which attributed to the sheer size of the war. What had begun as a territorial dispute had escalated into a full-blown, multi-continental war. The Russian occupation that they had observed back in Moldova had stretched all the way down to the Balkan region, where troops gathered allies to wage war on the Ottoman Empire, which was preparing to fight for its right to keep territory in the region. Nations such as Montenegro and Romania joined in with Russia, wanting to overthrow their Turkish rule in order to become free, independent states from the oppressive Empire. Serbia had been unsure of which path to take, quite friendly with Austria, who was an ally to the Empire. But the ruling House of Obrenovic was soon swayed by their neighbor, Prince Nikola of Montenegro, to declare war on the Ottoman Empire. This choice led to an entire section of the European continent engaging in the bloodiest war that had been seen since Crimea.

Despite these facts, the tension between the Ottoman Empire and its subjects in the Balkans was something that had occurred time and time again. However, this time, it seemed to have been prematurely provoked: the push of a certain voice that whispered _war to happen_ in the ears of sleeping politicians. It was most likely brought forth by the Earl himself, who was in need of a larger army. How almost poetic it was that the Earl planned to bring the Earth's demise, and what crafty way he did that was by sending humans to wage war amongst themselves which only created more soldiers for the army that could not be won against.

"Do you really believe it safe to leave so soon?" asked Zebulon, after that week of being cramped up underground pouring over stacks and stacks of newspapers and reports from all over Europe and the Middle East.

"It is now or never," Bookman replied. Zebulon and his silent apprentice saw Bookman and Lavi to the surface, going so far as to walk them to the front doors. There, the two old men shook hands and bid their farewells.

"Do viđenja (2)," Zebulon said in adieu. "And good luck."

"We're gonna need it…" Lavi mumbled from behind Bookman as they walked into a fiery sunrise.

**pqpq**

The violence was worse than the papers reported and it seemed like no part of the Balkans was free from turmoil. In every city and every township, there was everything from arson to theft, brutality towards women and children, and the total annihilation of populations without the slightest hesitation. Many a time, Bookman and Lavi walked over the still smoking corpses of those whom had unfortunately fallen victim to the riots that plagued the countryside. The old man had to applaud Lavi's stable state of mind during these incidents. His fifth persona, Ender, handled the scenes with unflinching maturity, recording diligently under Bookman's instruction. He listened well and produced remarkable work and though Bookman never verbally praised the boy, he did pat him on the head a few times with a silent bit of pride at his progress.

Out of all they had seen, the most vicious act of brutality was in Batak, a mountain village in the southwest of Bulgaria. The entire Pazardzhik province was a hotspot of activity, where skirmishes raged fiercely between Ottoman Turks and the rebels that opposed them. The worst of these atrocities peaked in the Batak, where a five-day battle occurred. Rape and slaughter was committed without the slightest thought, the _bashi-bozouk_ the worst as they killed both friend and foe alike.

At the end of five days, the rebel Christians had their last stronghold in the Saint Nedelya Church, where all were killed when those fighting for the Turks lit rags drenched in petrol and kerosene, setting the building ablaze to murder everyone inside. Bookman estimated that over five thousand people were killed in the span of less than a week and the town was left devastated after the armies moved on.

"It all seems so pointless," Lavi remarked, the night the meager remaining population of Batak buried their dead. They were standing atop a hill, out of sight as a candle lit procession mourned the passing of a many generation-long struggle.

"Nothing is ever pointless," Bookman replied, lighting a cigarette. "Even the most seemingly senseless of actions—the most meaningless in appearance—have a reason. Although the reason is not always the clear, there is a purpose. And that purpose is what shapes the world as we know it by building the bridges from history to present." Even in the moonlight, the shadows fell darkly across Lavi's face and that small, amused smile on his lips.

"And you said you didn't like poetry."

**pqpq**

When the news of this horror hit the press, nations all over Europe were outraged, eventually relenting its rather strict ruling from the previous Concert of Europe by allowing Russia to declare war on Turkey. It was with good reason and it was with enthusiasm that that northernmost country picked up arms and went to war for herself instead of by way of the smaller, Balkan nations. Because of this and the coverage that the war was receiving, Bookman felt that it was time to move on to bigger challenges.

"With all due respect: _qu ni de_*, because I am not wearing _that_," Lavi said, shaking his head.

(*screw you!)

"It is a part of your training and you _will _wear it," Bookman replied, laying the green dress on the table before him; Lavi took a few steps back from it as if it were going to jump up and bite him in the face.

"_Chu fei wo si le_*!" Lavi continued, putting as much space between him and the garment as possible.

(*over my dead body!)

"_Shen me_*? I said that you will so there is no other option," Bookman said, his paper-thin patience wearing dangerously past the breaking point. "Besides, there is nothing wrong with it. It's perfectly acceptable."

(*I'm sorry?)

"Except for the fact that I'm a _boy_," Lavi replied adamantly, but with some semblance of a pout. "So I can't be pulling of some _shuai*_ little girl!" Sure, Lavi did have a point, as he had a boyish figure and a trademark—a very masculine symbol—that obstructed his right eye. But he also had let his hair grow out in the few months they had been traveling through the Balkans, so that the shoulder-length locks had moved to below his shoulders to the middle of his back, which Lavi tied back into a messy ponytail with a scrap of fabric.

(*cute)

"That's where you're incorrect," Bookman said, tossing the dress at Lavi, which he wasn't fast enough to avoid that time. "So put that on and don't argue."

"_Dang ran_*," Lavi answered, as sarcastically as possible, before disappearing into the bathroom, throwing the door closed with a resounding slam. Bookman sat down with a tired sigh on the sofa, lighting a cigarette. They were in a small hotel just south of Lamia in Greece, stopping for the evening because of the torrential rains. That was the one thing that was bad about the country during the ending months of winter: even though it was warm during what would be the most bitter cold season, it tended to rain horrendously for days on end without ceasing.

(*of course)

Ender had been deleted, leaving Lavi to be in complete control of himself again. However, that came with a certain amount of, not quite rebellion, but something akin to it. As if Lavi was pressing the boundaries just to see how far he could stretch them. This sort of behavior was common in children his age, but Bookman wouldn't tolerate it for much longer. And even though Bookman felt Lavi's anger was a bit justified toward the current situation, it didn't change the fact that it was an assignment and there was no alternate course of action.

"Have I told you recently how much I hate you?" Lavi asked from the other side of the door.

"Come out," Bookman said, not wanting to hear his whining anymore. For good measure he added: "_Ma shang_*!"

(*now; right away!)

"_Fine_," Lavi growled audibly from the bathroom, turning the knob and stepping out. The dress—that Bookman had acquired rather cheaply on their journey to Lamia—fit Lavi rather well. Because of his age, Lavi's physical appearance was rather androgynous to begin with, but the garment brought out the more feminine aspect out. It would be very easy to fool people that Lavi was in fact female instead of a boy. If, of course, he wouldn't have had such a sour expression.

"That's not a very lady-like face," Bookman said in a prodding, teasing sort of way. Lavi, devoid of all humor, didn't see the joke.

"I hate my life," Lavi mumbled, picking irritably at the fabric of the dress. Lavi wouldn't know what it truly meant to hate his life until he wore a corset and petticoat, but Bookman had some bit of pity for him and didn't inform him of these fashions. Not yet anyway. Instead, for the rest of the day, Bookman attempted to bring Lavi up to speed on proper etiquette for young ladies. But after a day of battling wills, Bookman wondered if he could ever convince his hardheaded apprentice properly.

"Sit, and don't slouch" Bookman said to him the next morning when they were preparing to leave. Just to irk Bookman, Lavi sat with horrible posture by curling up onto the ottoman. "Your dress will wrinkle." Judging from Lavi's expression, he wouldn't care if the dress caught on fire while it was _on_ him. "_Wo de ma_* sit properly." Lavi must have sensed that Bookman was two words away from strangling him, so he reluctantly sat up straight and smoothed out the folds of his skirts with a bitter look. "That's better," Bookman said, standing from his chair. "Hands in your lap." Lavi complied, putting the right over the left in a graceful appearance while Bookman walked behind him. "Sit straighter." Lavi begrudgingly did so, probably because he felt uneasy now that Bookman was out of his range of vision.

(*mother of god)

"What's the point of this again?" Lavi asked, with a tired sounding sigh.

"The point of this is that we have something important to do," Bookman said, parting Lavi's hair down the middle with a wide-tooth comb. His apprentice flinched slightly at the contact, but didn't break his rigid posture.

"Can't we do it without me having to be a _girl_?" Lavi inquired, as Bookman brushed a few knots out of long, red strands.

"No," Bookman replied, pulling the hair into an elastic band with a quick turn of his wrist. "The person we need information from would not take well to you being a boy."

"Why the hell not?" Lavi grumbled, pulling at the finished pigtail with disdain. Bookman tugged the comb harshly through a rather mean looking tangle at the obscenity. "Ow!"

"No swearing," Bookman said.

"Fine. Why the _heck_ not?" Another tug and Lavi remedied it correctly with: "Why not?"

"The woman we seek lost her young son prematurely during the Crimean War nearly twenty years ago," Bookman answered, combing the rest of Lavi's hair gently until it was straight and smooth. "She hasn't taken kindly to male youth since."

"Why don't I just not go, then?" Lavi asked, a touch of whining to his tone.

"You need to come as a part of your training," Bookman said, pulling the hair into a matching band. "There will be no other way around it. It will probably be the most challenging thing you've encountered so far."

"Most challenging thing _ever_ more like it," Lavi mumbled glumly. If only he knew that it would only get tougher from then on out…

"It will not be so difficult," Bookman replied, tying ribbon at the base of the pigtail. "Young girls are to be seen and not heard, so you don't have to worry about making conversation. Their main purpose is to be ornamented and noticed by others and that is all."

"Great," Lavi said, even more depressed-sounding than before. "I'm not sure if I can keep this up…"

"You're not trying hard enough," Bookman said.

"Can you _blame_ me?" Lavi asked, picking at the lace on the sleeves of his dress. "I'm going to be so confused when I grow up…"

"You'll be fine," Bookman said, tying the other ribbon on the twin pigtail.

"You owe me so much for this," Lavi mumbled, crossing his arms.

"I owe you nothing," Bookman said seriously, tying the last bow a little too tight. "There. Go look at yourself." Lavi sighed and stood, stomping a few steps toward the mirror that hung in the hall. Bookman made him come back again and properly walk like a young lady, which he did with an annoyed expression. His red pigtails adorned with emerald bows disappeared around the corner into the main hallway. Then there was a still silence for a few moments before Bookman heard Lavi's shaky voice.

"I am no longer a man."

**pqpq**

The journey to Athens wasn't as bad as it could have been. Once again, Lavi's appearance had gotten them several rides and the servers in some taverns cooed at how adorable Bookman's young granddaughter was. Lavi remained in control during these scenes, only to break out of his character in private to complain about how unfair the entire situation was.

"You had no problem truly becoming your other personas," Bookman said quietly to Lavi, one day when a charitable farmer let them ride in the back of his cart. "What is wrong with this one?"

"Maybe because the others were _male_ I didn't really have a problem relating," Lavi answered, crossing his lacy sleeves over his chest. Bookman lit a cigarette and thought for the rest of the journey, wondering if he should employ _that_ technique. There was nothing wrong with it, he knew, but even Bookman himself found that it was something that shouldn't be used often, lest negative side-effects occur. "Besides, I really don't like wearing a dress; it's…awkward…"

"Then we'll try something," Bookman said, taking a drag of his cigarette. Lavi looked at him as if he wanted to know more, but that was all the old man was going to divulge at that moment. It was only later, in the darkness of their hotel room, that Bookman explained persona-placed hypnosis techniques.

The concept was simple: instead of Bookman helping form an identity with Lavi's base personality, he implanted it solely on his own. Lavi would remain unconscious for the entire time that the new persona was active, remembering all that transpired while at the same time being completely ignorant of the persona he had worn during the time the memories were created. Hypnosis was a common practice among the Clan, and Bookman himself had been hypnotized by his own master a few times for several missions where there had been no room for error. Although the old man didn't want to rely on this method—as sometimes the effects that remained long after the hypnosis could affect the actual psyche of the person in question—he felt that perhaps in this instance, it wouldn't be that bad to introduce Lavi to the technique. It was only going to be for a few days, so there really wasn't that much of a risk of permanent alteration of Lavi's character.

Hypnosis truly was easy, because there was no amount of suggestion to something being a certain way. Everything was laid out the way it was supposed to be and nothing could change that, not even Lavi himself. The base persona quietly went dormant as Bookman introduced the new personality: Dion. He was Lavi's physical age, traumatized by his parents' violent homicide and the violation inflicted upon him by the murderer. It explained his mute nature and the eye patch that marred his otherwise perfect face. Dion was dressed as a girl (Dido) because he knew it was the only way to get past border checks without a passport, and he played the part of a female well, knowing what it meant to be caught and deported back to his home country, where he would most likely be sold into sex slavery. Dion/Dido—Di, for short—was polite, well-educated, and traveling with his scholar-grandfather to Italy, where he lived.

This story was the main reasoning behind his personality, which manifested itself in certain behaviors. Because of the hypnosis-placed persona, Dion really believed he had undergone some training in understanding the mannerisms of women. Due to this education, Dion carried himself with the grace of a young lady. The insertion of the personality was also the direct factor that had rendered Dion mute. Bookman chalked this up to the rather vivid memory of the "attack" Dion believed had actually occurred. The trauma that the persona experienced by reliving the incident-that-never-happened must have been too much for the psyche, causing him to fall dumb in the form of speech.

Nevertheless, Dion knew his mission and played the part of the nobleman's granddaughter as they traveled to Athens. He was so convincing that he nearly fooled Bookman into thinking that Dion was real. But he was just a persona: something that could easily be erased.

**pqpq**

Upon arriving in Athens, Bookman realized how long it had been since he had last traveled to the miraculous city. It was thriving with industry, trade, and tourism. Especially during the winter months in Europe, Greece was the escape for the wealthy who wanted to pass the season in the warm Mediterranean. Dion made a small, nervous motion upon seeing the amount of people in the crowds; the roads that were crammed with carriages and women's parasols. But after a second, Dion collected himself and became Dido, following after Bookman with a neat posture and small footsteps.

Because of the great number of tourists, the Greek government had asked as a courtesy that each noble sign the Guest Roster at their version of a City Hall. There, each noble would write their name, how long they were planning to stay, where they were taking up residence, and the number of servants they brought with them. It kept the government happy and let the wealthy know who was rich enough to vacation in Athens so that they could send out their invitations to those well-off enough to associate with.

It was the Guest Roster that let Bookman know Kendra was in the city with her mistress, Lady Alexandra Olivia Coryton. The address wasn't hard to find either: a large establishment on one of the main roads, close to the water. It was gated, but through the iron slats Bookman could see caterers setting up things in the front and back yards, probably for an evening soiree.

"It looks like we are going to attend a party tonight."

**pqpq**

Not everyone could be invited to a private soiree, but Bookman had a plan to get them on the guest list. Although he didn't know Lady Alexandra that well, Bookman knew she had a soft spot for children. Unlike Kendra, who had lost a child and remained bitter about it, Lady Alexandra had been unable to conceive a child of her own so she loved all young boys and girls. Bookman decided to use that to his advantage.

Because the weather was nice outside and because Bookman knew that the lady of the house was never present when the soiree was being set up, the old man figured that she had gone out for entertainment. Most of the carriages that passed by them were going to the Herodeion. The Odeon of Herodes Atticus was built in 160 A.D. and it functioned as an outdoor theater where the audience sat up high and the actors or musicians played their parts from the stage below. It was a popular tourist attraction, especially when the wealthy sought entertainment abroad from their usual indoor auditoriums and concert halls.

By the time they reached the theater, the show was almost over. Still, they were directed to a seat where some spectators looked at them with a bit of disdain for the small interruption. Performing below was the dramatic end to Aeschylus's _Oresteia_, which Dion watched with rapt attention, probably curious as to the emotionless masks that the performers wore and had been wearing since the ancient Greek performances back when the Herodeion had just been constructed.

While the end of the curse on the House of Atreus played out below them, Bookman scanned the sea of people in search for Lady Alexandra. All the noblewomen looked alike, so it was difficult, but among the frilly, bonnet-clad heads and satin suits, Bookman spotted Lady Alexandra's fair blonde hair and Kendra's dark skin. The old man pointed the two women out to Dion who nodded in understanding.

The plan was that when the crowd got up to leave, they would become separated. Dion would seek out the two women, look adorable, and Lady Alexandra would insist that they remain until they found "her" parents. Then Bookman would appear, claiming that the young girl was his grandniece. Lady Alexandra and Kendra both would remember him as Sebastian Michielles DeOrsey. However, unlike Lady Alexandra--who would associate Bookman as a scholar and historian--Kendra would remember Bookman as the paranormal researcher with a special interest in paganism. She would remember this because of her association with the religion, especially the blacker side of it. Indeed, after her son died, Kendra had let her magic get a bit out of control. But when she had heard of her friend, Lady Alexandra, and her illness, Kendra turned White. Turning white, however, didn't mean one forgot the Ways of the Black. And it didn't mean she had gotten rid of her old "manuals" either. With luck, she might possess one of the copies of the Necronomicon or at least know where to obtain one.

Once the play was finished and the seats began emptying, their plan was put into action. Bookman went one way, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Dion behind to look around confused and clueless for him. Easily, Bookman situated himself somewhere where he could watch, but remain out of sight. His kohl-rimmed eyes followed two red pigtails through the crowd, watching as they found their goal. Dido bowed repeatedly in apology, shrinking back as Kendra's protective glare of her mistress nearly penetrated him. But Lady Alexandra waved her off, patting Dion's head with a kind smile and a delicate hand. Beside her was another young girl with brunette ringlets and a parasol, who seemed to be trying to hug Dion with intent to keep him from crying.

From so far away, Bookman could not judge what Alexandra was saying, nor Kendra, but after a few moments where Dion nodded or shook his head, the old man decided that it was time to show himself.

"Upon my word," Alexandra said, putting her hand to her chest when she saw Bookman. "Is that Sir DeOrsey?" The moment those words left her lips, Dion hurried over to him like the frightened child he was pretending to be. The young girl beside Alexandra looked upset that her new friend had run away so quickly.

"It is indeed," Bookman replied, drawing upon the old persona. He bowed politely to her. "And it has been a while, Lady Coryton."

"My goodness, Sebastian, just call me Alexandra," she said.

"As the lady wishes," Bookman answered. He could feel Kendra's eyes on him, questioning, slightly burning. But instead, he looked at the young girl in their company. She was fair, like Alexandra and had the same facial structure, indicating that they were related. Her eye color and hair were different from Alexandra, so Bookman presumed that this was Alexandra's niece. "And who is this fair young lady accompanying you this fine day?"

"This is my niece, Lillian Aubrey Coryton," Lady Alexandra replied, and Lillian bowed curtsied cutely.

"Pleased to meet you Sir DeOrsey," she said.

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Lillian," Bookman answered.

"And who is this young one accompanying you, Sir Sebastian?" asked Alexandra, indicating Dion, who was standing slightly behind Bookman. He looked awkward and apologetic, but still held the same sort of grace that Lillian displayed.

"This is my grandniece, Dido Marie Dubois," Bookman said and Dion gave a shy, but respectable curtsey in response.

"Are you vacationing here, Sir Sebastian?" Alexandra inquired.

"Unfortunately not. We are merely passing through," Bookman replied easily. "On route to Italy."

"All the way to Italy?" asked Alexandra. "That's quite the distance."

"Nonsense, my lady," Bookman said. "You know I travel for a living."

"But it is far for a young lady to travel," said Alexandra, looking at Dion's appearance. The dress he wore was nothing compared to what the ladies were wearing. It was just a simple green dress with very little extra, suitable for traveling long distances. "The poor dear has to wear a young boy's pair of boots!"

"She can't possibly wear anything else," Bookman said. "Traveling is not for delicate things."

"I won't stand for it while you're here," Lady Alexandra declared. "You will remain as my guest at my home for as long as you are in Athens. Miss Dubois will wear what a proper lady wears during this time."

"We get to play dress-up!" said Lillian excitedly, hurrying over to Dion. "I have so many dresses that would look _darling_ on you!" Dion smiled a little, still playing the shy card around them.

"I say, Miss Dubois, don't you ever speak your mind?" asked Alexandra, not in an accusatory tone, but merely out of curiosity. Dion looked down and away, gravitating toward Bookman as if for safety.

"She does not speak," Bookman replied, making his tone sound truly regrettable. Lady Alexandra quieted, her pale blue eyes asking for him to fill her in later. Kendra just narrowed her eyes at them, remaining silent as a good servant was expected to. Lillian didn't seem to notice the seriousness in the air, taking Dion by the hand where she tried to make him skip with her. It was difficult for him to do in boots, Bookman could tell, but he tried at least.

"M'lady," said a voice near the exit. A man in all black stood there with his hat in his hand. "Your carriage back to the city awaits."

"Thank you, Leonardo," Lady Alexandra said. With an elegant silver-tipped cane, the sickly woman pushed herself to a stand, using Kendra as a support to help her as well. "You will ride back with us to the house. I will not accept any other answer." With no room left for argument, the noblewoman made her slow way towards the carriage. Kendra looked back at Bookman with her mistress's eyes forward, her black gaze holding his with intensity. _Why are you here?_ her gaze seemed to ask. Bookman let his body language show that he meant her no ill will, but she didn't seem to believe it at all.

**pqpq**

"Please, make yourselves at home," said Lady Alexandra, when they returned to her abode later that afternoon. The place was sparkling clean and the wonderful smell of food being cooked wafted through the open, airy rooms. Lillian pulled Dion through the house with a laugh that echoed merrily throughout the house. As the young girl's giggle disappeared somewhere in the long hallways and spacious rooms, Lady Alexandra and Bookman sat down to tea. Kendra stood to the lady's right silently, but her eyes were burning when she looked at Bookman, still considering him a threat. "Now, Sir Sebastian, let us catch up."

The next hour or so was spent socializing. Lady Alexandra filled Bookman in on her circumstances: mostly about her health, which had been doing better with Kendra's treatment, but still was far from cured. She also spoke of her brother, who was vacationing with his wife and their older son in Paris. Lillian had wanted to go to Greece with her aunt, so Lady Alexandra had willingly brought her along for the cheerful company. In return, Bookman told her of his travels throughout Europe and of his grandniece whom he had acquired through unfortunate circumstances. After the lady had shown her sympathy for the death of his "brother" she turned the topic of conversation to Dido.

"The poor dear had her parents murdered before her eyes?" Alexandra asked, her hand to her chest with complete disbelief. At Bookman's nod, she shook her head and dabbed at her eyes delicately. "How horrible. And she hasn't spoken since, you say?" A shake of his head and poor Alexandra looked like she might cry. "That explains it. Also, the…" Alexandra placed her fingertips gently over her right eyelid, indicating silently the eye patch that Dion wore. Bookman nodded once more. "Positively dreadful." Alexandra fanned herself, looking rather ill. Kendra noticed as well and spoke for the first time:

"You've gone and upset m'lady, Lord Sebastian," she said in a warning tone, throwing a look at Bookman that could have turned him to ash if looks could do that sort of thing. "Come Lady Alexandra. Let us get you to bed for a quick lie down," Kendra suggested to her mistress, helping the frail woman out of her chair.

"I hope you don't mind," Lady Alexandra said, leaning heavily on her cane as she stood.

"By all means, please rest," Bookman replied, rising to give her a small bow before she left. Then he sat back in his chair and waited for Kendra to return, which she did some time later, straightening her button up vest with a sour look.

"Why are you here, Sebastian?" she asked, not sitting down, but standing by the window in the room with her arms crossed. By the faint light of the afternoon sun, Bookman could see that she had aged since the last time he had seen her and her long hair that she had worn down to her waist with such pride in years long past, was trapped in a severe looking bun at the top of her head.

"Like I said before," Bookman replied easily. "Just passing through."

"You never just pass through," Kendra replied, turning her dark, exotic eyes on him. For a moment, Bookman could have sworn he saw a flicker of the Black in them, but it was gone before he could be certain. "What do you want?" Bookman gave her a wry little smile. If there was anything that the witch before him was good at, it was learning how to read people quickly.

"I am interested in the Craft," Bookman answered and Kendra gave him another one of her looks that spoke more words than anything. He remedied with: "A certain branch of the Craft."

"I'm not versed in every Magik," Kendra responded quickly.

"You might know a little something about this certain kind of Magik," Bookman said, leaning back into his chair casually. Kendra wasn't looking at him, but he had a feeling she knew what he was referring to. "The Death Magik." The moment those words passed his lips, something behind him that sounded like glass shattered and crashed to the floor. The look in Kendra's eyes was filled with fiery anger.

"I'm not in the Fold anymore, Sebastian," she hissed. Bookman could hear the china rattling dangerously in the cabinet. "I've left the Coven and started White, I assured you of that the last time we met."

"I have no doubts that you have changed," Bookman said, even though he _did_ have doubts after her little episode. "But changed or not, you still remember the finer details of your previous occupation, don't you?" Kendra gripped her skirts a bit too tightly, her intense glare at Bookman broken when the gentle ring of a bell echoed throughout the house.

"My lady calls. We will resume this conversation at a later time, excuse me," Kendra said, her eyes not so dark now that her speech turned back to the royal politeness expected of servants of the upper class.

When she left, Bookman got up from his seat, walking towards the window to look out at the ocean a few kilometers from the house. The sun was getting lower and lower in the sky, spilling across the lawn. There, the tables were already set up for the evening party, some hanging outdoor lanterns being constructed and placed in strategic areas for a comfortable glow during the evening gathering.

"Sir DeOrsey," said a voice, pulling him out of his observations. There was a butler there with a gracious bow to him. "The Lady Coryton has arranged a room for you, if you would follow me."

"Certainly," Bookman replied, obliging by walking with the butler, who showed him to a beautiful guest room.

"Your things have already been brought up," said the butler. "And some clothes selected for you and the young Miss Dubois as well."

"Thank you," Bookman said.

"Anything else, sir?" asked the butler.

"Please find Miss Dubois and escort her here," Bookman replied. The butler replied in the affirmative before closing the double doors behind him. Now it was all about waiting.

**pqpq**

The party that night was something that was dreadful, especially for a Bookman. His purpose was merely to be on the sidelines to record what he observed. It was not his place to socially interact for long periods of time. Bookman spent most of the evening being passed around from one friend of Lady Alexandra's to another, while Kendra watched with a sort of amused look that she hid rather well. While Bookman was interrogated by noble after noblewoman, Dion was paraded around in somewhat the same fashion by Lillian. The two were dressed in nearly the same party gowns: Dion's in green and Lillian's in blue. Because of this, they were constantly fawned over by the adults and at one point Bookman saw that Dion had been dragged to the dance floor to waltz with a tall youth in a Navy officer uniform.

"It's a shame you won't tell me your name," Bookman overheard him saying to Dion as the smaller boy tried to keep up with the taller man while not tripping on the hem of his dress. "Because I'd very much like to know." Dion made a shy face at the boy, turning his head slightly to catch Bookman's gaze. His expression said: _help me_ but Bookman let him at least finish out the dance before intervening. The music had stopped, but the boy hadn't let Dion's hands go and Bookman could tell he was trying to be gracious and polite about it as he tried to move away. Stepping close to them, the boy finally dropped Dion's gloved hands and gave a bow of greeting to Bookman, which the old man returned.

"Forgive me for interrupting, but I couldn't help but notice you were dancing with my grandniece," Bookman replied, managing to form something of a smile, which made the youth tremble a bit in fear.

"I beg your apologies, sir," he answered with an apologetic bow. "I should have obtained your permission before dancing with—"

"Miss Dido Marie Dubois," Bookman replied; Dion let go of Bookman's sleeve long enough to give a polite curtsey before hiding back behind the old man. "I am her caregiver Sebastian Michielles DeOrsey."

"A pleasure. I am William Chetwynd-Talbot of Shrewsbury," he said in greeting, still looking a bit embarrassed at the entire situation. After all, William was nearly twice Dion's age.

"Forgive me, Sir Talbot, but after the accident I have become protective of her, you see," Bookman said, placing a hand on top of Dion's hair. With his hair up and curled into a pretty bun, the eye patch that covered his right eye was obvious and out-of-place. William looked awkward at the topic and apologetic once again, but didn't say anything. "After the incident, Dido hasn't spoken since. Forgive her if you believed her to be rude in your company this evening."

"Not at all," William hurried to say. "She was perfect company." From the corner of his eye, Bookman saw Dion's ears turn red. William noticed it too and laughed a bit, but stopped when Bookman gave him a long stare. He cleared his throat and gave another bow to them. "Well, it was a pleasure this evening, Miss Dubois, to have the honor of dancing with you. And it was a fine pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir DeOrsey." With nothing else left to say, he excused himself and mingled with the rest of the wealthy people that were arranged there.

"Come now. We have work to do," Bookman said; Dion gave a sigh that he interpreted as _finally_. And the two of them easily slipped out of the crowd and back into the house.

**pqpq**

There were too many servants in the house to wander around too much, so Bookman closed them off in the library, lighting an oil lamp to bring a healthy glow into the darkened room.

"Look for anything suspicious," Bookman instructed. "But open nothing." Dion nodded in understanding and together they got to work, sorting through the books upon books that rested on the shelves. Most were novels or literature, some poems and others filled with sheet music or hymns. Nothing that pointed to any sort of Craft or Black Art was on the shelves. He should have known that Kendra wouldn't have put something so important out, but Bookman had hoped perhaps maybe she felt the safest of places was the most obvious of places…

A tug on his sleeve made him look down. Dion held a few books up for him to look at, his expression tired but also hopeful that he had done a good job. The titles were: _The Craft at Its Best_, _Earth and Soul: Magik for Life, _and also _Wicca, a Users Complete Manual_. They were well worn and used, the pages creased down and not taken care of, but the text was clear and crisp, as if it had been preserved by spellcraft.

However, the contents of the books did nothing to satisfy Bookman's curiosity. It was all White charms and potions, nothing of the Black he was looking for. The harder, darker volumes must have been put away for safe keeping. Or perhaps Kendra really had gotten rid of them to cleanse herself of that past…?

Footsteps on the landing outside made Bookman hastily shove the books back on the nearest shelf. Dion laid himself out gracefully on the chair by the window, closing his eye as if asleep. The footsteps stopped and then the door opened, revealing the face of the butler from earlier.

"Good evening, sir," he said with a respectful bow.

"Good evening," Bookman replied.

"Do you need anything, sir?" he asked.

"Not now, thank you," Bookman answered, and with another bow, the butler was gone. Dion let out a big sigh when they were alone again and the butler's footsteps had softly disappeared. "We will continue our search tomorrow." Dion just nodded, rubbing at his left eye tiredly as he slid off the chair. "I will let you have sweet dreams about Sir William tonight."

Dion promptly went red and accidentally ran into the nearest end table.

**pqpq**

In the morning, breakfast was served in the dining room. Lady Alexandra sat at one end of the large table while Bookman sat on the other. The two children sat opposite each other in the middle; Lillian made faces at her brisket when she thought no one was looking and Dion ate like a bird, not paying attention to any of the little conversation exchanged. Kendra stood beside her mistress silently, staring at Bookman without blinking as much as she should have.

"We will be having some guests over this afternoon for lunch and a game of croquet. I do hope you will join us," Alexandra said.

"Most certainly," Bookman replied. After all, they could not leave without getting the information from Kendra. "May I inquire as to who you will be having the pleasure to entertain?" As Alexandra replied with her list of names, Bookman listened with half an ear. Socializing with the upper class was not the most enjoyable to pursuits, but if it needed to happen, then it would surely happen…

"…also Sir William Chetwynd-Talbot of Shrewsbury will be coming by again," said Alexandra, not noticing that Dion had dropped his fork with a loud clatter on the table, which Lillian giggled at quietly. "He's on leave right now from the fleet and staying with his uncle, Count Bernard Ashford-Talbot who is on vacation here until May…" As Alexandra continued to speak of her guests, Lillian excused herself and Dion, pulling the redhead from the table to get ready for the engagement that afternoon.

The arches hadn't even been completely set up when the guests arrived; all had arrived in higher quality fashion that was certainly most overdressed for a croquet game in the Mediterranean heat. However, everyone was in good spirits, talking about one thing or another, Bookman engaging in conversation with an ambitious doctor who was curious about acupuncture. Because of the _kuzhe_ (3) Bookman had donned for the occasion, the man had immediately presumed him to be foreign and had tried to speak in poor Chinese to him. After Lady Alexandra cleared up the confusion and everyone had had a laugh at his expense, the man spoke in quiet English.

The children sat prettily in the shade on the porch, watching everyone play. Bookman had declined joining, as did Lady Alexandra, so they were fortunate to not be out in the hot sun. After losing spectacularly, Sir William pulled himself out of the game and sat on the bench next to the "girls". He seemed particularly keen on talking with Dion, who was looking rather pale at the affection.

When the second round began, Dion came over and tugged on Bookman's sleeve. His complexion was paper white so Bookman excused the both of them, wondering why his apprentice appeared as if he could pass out at any second.

"What is wrong?" Bookman asked, once they were safely inside the privacy of the house. Dion didn't answer, because he couldn't, but gripped at his chest and took a pained-sounding breath. Obviously after he had gotten dressed in his underclothes, the person who had tied his corset had done too good of a job. Bookman had him lean over the seat before the piano while he unbuttoned the back of Dion's dress and then released the majority of the tension from the boning around the redhead's waist by stretching the tight chords down his back. Dion took in a big gulp of air and then sighed, slumping over the bench with relief.

"What…is going on here?"

Bookman looked up quick enough to see Sir William standing there, staring at the two of them in shock. He was standing there in shock because of the impropriety of the scene before him, or at least it seemed improper when an older man had a young girl bent over a piano seat with the back of her dress undone. Even more so when said older man was related to the girl, who had been violated once before. Yes, things certainly did not look well, and Sir William, the fucking twit, was thinking the worst of it. Before Bookman could calmly explain himself, Sir William was all up in an outrage.

"That is disgusting! You get away from Miss Dubois right this moment!" said Sir William, in the classic English, snobby accent. He looked very much like he wanted to use the rapier at his hip, but he did not draw it.

"What is all the commotion in here?" asked a feminine voice from the doorway. Kendra was standing there, her dark eyes sweeping over the room to find the source of the problem. When she saw exactly what it was, Bookman could have sworn she saw the Black rise up in her slightly. She was extremely sensitive when it came to children, especially after her own had passed. "Upon my word, Sir DeOrsey, what do you think you're doing?"

"Someone made Miss Dubois' corset a bit too tight," Bookman answered, looking right into her black depths. She had been the one to dress the children, so it had been her fault from the start. "Please see to it next time that you give her a bit of breathing room." Kendra narrowed her eyes and Sir William let go of the handle of his weapon, confused but at least no longer angry.

"My mistake, m'lord," she replied with a horridly over-done bow. "It shan't happen again." She left them with a quick slam of the door, with Sir William looking awkward as ever as he tried to leave without being noticed. He managed to slip out the door, only running into the wall with the hilt of his sword once before effectively leaving.

This whole thing was just turning out to be ridiculously stupid.

**pqpq**

That night, Bookman was through with the games and the go-arounds with guests and stupid naval officers and cheeky nursemaids. He was determined to get what he set out for and Kendra was already waiting for them in the library after Lady Alexandra had gone to bed.

"So why does this branch Craft have you so enthralled, Sir Sebastian?" she asked, looking at him from behind a crystal tumbler of black liquid. Her eyes burned like smoldering coals against the caramel of her skin. "Do you seek to wake the Fallen?"

"I seek nothing of the sort," Bookman answered. Dion stayed safely behind him, intently listening to the conversation. The persona had no idea what was going on, but Lavi unconsciously did and was forcing Dion to use every sense to observe what transpired. "I merely wish to know what I could not find here." Bookman set a heavy tome on the table, wrapped in a simple few yards of fabric. The Necronomicon gave a groan as it was put down and a sigh when it was released from the binding restraints of the cloth. Kendra looked at it, her eyes turning darker still, but this time with something akin to excitement.

"Is that…the Book?" she asked, leaning close to it. Her fingertips were centimeters away from touching it when she hissed and pulled her hand back. "They said it was Pure Evil. My White hands do not even want to touch it."

"Have you ever had the pleasure of reading it?" Bookman asked, looking right at her. Her eyes caught his in exactly the right way as he attempted a small dose of hypnosis on her. Persuasion and suggestion did nothing for her, which let Bookman know that she hadn't ever encountered the book or any of its copies in her life. "What a shame…" As Bookman said this, he began to cover up the tome, but Kendra's hand stopped him, her eyes alight with feverish desire.

"Perhaps…I can read it? Just a little…" she murmured, looking at the book and nothing but the book, as if it was calling to her, like the night Bookman had heard all the whispers in a quiet room…

"No," Bookman replied, covering it up. Her trance broke and she leaned away, back against the couch to play with the small glass of black liquid again. "You've never read this Book, hm? Did you know of anyone who had?" Kendra stopped for a moment, a cat-like smile gracing her lips.

"Perhaps," she answered vaguely, only increasing this secrecy when she added: "Perhaps I knew someone from the Coven who might have had the Honor."

"And perhaps you would tell me of this person?" Bookman asked.

"What's in it for me?" she inquired, innocently. The tumbler moved over her fingers like water, never spilling a drop of its contents.

"Knowing that you're doing an old friend a favor," Bookman answered.

"Old friend," Kendra spat, looking outraged.

"It was my word that kept you from being hanged. Zebulon had it arranged with the Society of Witchhunters," Bookman replied, recalling the incident back in Serbia almost ten years ago. The Witchhunters had found a Coven in the mountains and brought them to Belgrade, determined to hang them in the public square for the curses that they had brought upon the Balkan region. However, it was Zebulon who appealed to the Society that had spared Kendra's life when she and some others had sworn to go White if they were released. They were while the rest of the Coven was hanged when they wouldn't give up their Black ways. Upon turning White, Kendra focused her energies on Healing, especially when she heard that Lady Alexandra—the child that she had looked after when she had first become a servant in the Coryton manor—remained ill even into adulthood. So her entire life had changed because of Bookman's interference. Little did she know that it was all because the old man knew he would need something from her one day; and when that day came she couldn't deny him what he asked. After all, it was a Life Debt.

She seemed to realize this and she stopped the glass so that it stayed perched on her middle knuckle.

"His name is Simon," she answered. "I don't know his real name. People just called him Simon the Scrivener. The last I heard, he had fled to Egypt to live somewhere near Cairo. He had a thing for Anubis (4), so you might find him lurking in someone's tomb." She said this with amusement, either at the thought of this man lurking in catacombs, or the image of Bookman wandering around lost in the same place.

"That's all?" Bookman asked.

"All I know," she replied, her eyes secretive again. The black liquid in the glass had disappeared, leaving the glass empty and glittering against her brown flesh.

"Very well," Bookman said, taking up the book as he exited the room with Dion's soft lace swooshing along the ground quietly behind him.

**pqpq**

Bookman awoke in the middle of the night to a creaking noise in the hallway outside. A faint sliver of light spilled into his room from the outside corridor: a blue line on the smooth wood floor. He heard the creaking again that sounded like slow footsteps on the landing outside. Getting up out of bed and lighting a candle, Bookman got up out of bed and went to the door. It was cracked, as if someone had opened it and forgotten to shut it. The Necronomicon was gone from where it had been placed on the stand right next to the exit, suggesting someone had taken it with them when they left.

Bookman turned and went to the adjoining door against the wall, opening it into the bedroom linked to his. It was Dion's room where the soft moonlight spilled in through the open window across white bed sheets.

And it was empty.

**pqpq**

Fuck. 9,399 words. I have to stop myself sometimes…but writing Lavi as a girl is funny. Sir William is my fave, because he's such a clueless twit XD My favorite part of this entire chapter, though, was the swearing match between Lavi and Bookman, and Lavi's whole "I am no longer a man". Oh, I may be a bad person, but I'm sure that all of you were like: "Lavi with ribbons makes me LOL". Wow, I really need to sleep .

Anyways, sorry this took so long. Moving around and working and going to school is tough sometimes, haha. But at least I've gotten over my writers block for this story and I know what I'm going to do with it. I've got it all planned out and it's going to be _epic_. Epic as in long _and_ awesome.

Stuff you might want to know~!

1. Dinar – the unit of currency in Serbia.

2. Do viđenja – "goodbye" in Serbian

3. Kuzhe – a short, Chinese coat with trousers underneath, i.e. what you normally see Bookman wearing when he's not in his Exorcist uniform. Like, his lazy-lounge wear.

4. Anubis – the Egyptian God of Death

Mkay, so on a more private note: I'm going to **Ohayocon** in a couple weeks. It's in Columbus, Ohio, and I was extending the invitation to everyone out there. I'd love to meet fellow writers, so if you want to meet up and have lunch or wave at me or have me sign your baby's forehead (what the f—?) I'm totally down with that. Just tell me in a review or private PM if you want to meet up/make fun of me/molest me in my Lavi outfit!

And now, for more **news**. I've decided, on the contrary to my poll, that I'm going to try to update this story once every **two weeks**. I figure that way, people won't have to spend forever reading the chapters and will actually remember stuff instead of having to go back to find out what the hell I'm talking about. So…yeah. Sleep. I should be doing that.

Drop me a review, please? –needing love-

Peace, babes.

**Dhampir72**


	28. Cursed

Thanks for your love and support everyone. You guys keep this story going!

Also to **MarciKupo**: To answer your question, Lavi is about eight currently. I'm trying to stick with the character profiles that were released a while ago by keeping certain things in mind (because at nine, Lavi exceeds Bookman in height XD). So…yeah :)

**pqpq**

Dion was gone.

The quiet, empty room testified to his absence, causing Bookman to swear softly under his breath. Not only did he have a shifty witch in the house and a missing spell book, but now his apprentice had disappeared as well. Things kept on getting worse and would only continue to follow down that path if it had been Kendra who had taken Dion. Who knew what she would use him for, that so called "White" master.

Striding over to the door that led out to the main hallway, Bookman opened it softly and caught sight of the mere tips of long red hair fluttering out of sight around the corner. At least Dion had not gotten too far, Bookman presumed, and hurried to follow in the same direction after him. Unlike his apprentice, Bookman made no sound when he moved across the floor and lurked behind him. His straight locks were down, neatly brushed to the center of his back; they swayed when he walked. In Dion's hand, he held the tight knot of the fabric that enclosed the Necronomicon.

Bookman did not make to stop him, keeping his observatory nature in control as they made their way through the elegantly furnished corridors. Judging by the way he was walking, Dion was not under his own power. It was a slow, almost painful gait, as if each step was a battle he was slowly losing. At least that allowed Bookman to know who the culprit was and his kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed dangerously. It was the worst possible misuse of magik to control someone the way Dion was being forced to move because it took away all semblance of free will: the Blackest art.

Dion rounded another corner and Bookman—who had been two steps behind—followed, only to find an empty hallway before him. It was still and dark, lit eerily by faint slivers of moonlight through the tall windows. At first, Bookman did not know where Dion had gone to, but noticed that one of the tapestries closest to him had an irregular fold to it. Nearing the heavy drape, Bookman moved it aside to discover a servants' door slightly ajar; the crack was dimly lit by a glowing yellow light from below. Bookman began his descent down the spiral wooden stairs, keeping his weight evenly balanced on the rickety steps so he did not make too much noise to alert whoever was at the bottom. And there were people at the bottom; two, in fact. Only of those two people, one was silent while the other spoke in a familiar, feminine tenor:

"Good, you've returned to me," came Kendra's voice from below. "I do hope you refrained from waking Sebastian." There was silence from Dion, but Bookman stopped and strained his ears, catching the sound of a rustle of fabric changing hands. "These secrets…are now mine…" Kendra's voice was like the purr of a large, dangerous cat. There was another long stretch of silence as Bookman took the last few stairs as silently as a shadow. From there, he watched, taking in the scene.

It was a small, sub-storage area, which had probably been used for cooking at one time. However, it now served as some sort of lair for Kendra. Mountains of spell books littered the surface of an old, oak table in the centre of the room. An array of what looked to be repellent and protection charms hung from strands of black thread and leather from hooks above the fireplace. It smelled like myrrh and something that had been dead for a while, probably rotting. The only source of light was from a few candles and the dying flames in the hearth. Kendra was standing before it, her face cast in darkness, and Dion was before her. He was still except for the small twitches of movement that escaped him every few moments, as if he were still fighting for control of his body.

"It's time for me to bring him back…" Kendra murmured, still entranced with the book in her hands. It laid in her palms effortlessly, still swathed in the fabric to keep it from touching her skin. She turned the pages with the end of a long, silver nail on the tip of her finger. "My dearest Sarmad…" Bookman knew the name that she uttered: it was the name of her son who had been killed so long ago.

She moved through the book, searching for the section about resurrection. However, like Bookman had discovered, Kendra found that that certain part of the volume had been lost to decay. Dark eyes turned black with rage as she slammed the tome down on the table beside her. Something fell and shattered on the ground.

"It's incomplete," she snarled, turning her anger on Dion. Kendra grabbed a fistful of red hair, turning it painfully in her grasp. "You little brat!" He didn't utter a sound as she shook him in rage, and was silent still even when he was flung from Kendra's breast across the room. Dion went flying into an old bureau on the far wall; plates and cutlery fell around him where he lay still on the ground. "What am I supposed to do now?!" she cried, sweeping her arm along the length of the table. Papers fluttered to the ground or ripped; glass bottles filled with unknown substances smashed on the floor like their predecessor. Dion flinched away from the sound, moving slightly under the broken pieces of china and glass. Bookman saw his bloodied fingers clutch at a kitchen knife beside him, the silver instrument disappearing under a lace sleeve. "There's nothing I can possibly do with this!"

"You could always give it back," Bookman said, stepping into the room. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't intervene, but Dion—or more accurately, Lavi—had brought out his rather meddling nature. Besides, the old man knew he couldn't just leave his apprentice there under the control of a Black witch; especially when he feared that such interference could prematurely eradicate Dion, which in turn could injure the base personality "Lavi". Not to mention, Bookman had a use for the Necronomicon and no matter how much the sordid book was not something he enjoyed carrying, he required it for a later date.

"Sebastian," she answered, turning to look at him with a slow movement of her head, much like that of a large lioness hunting gazelle in the tall grass. Kendra's eyes were completely black; her smile was something devilish. She looked like the woman who had almost been hanged in Belgrade all those years ago. Bookman thought for a moment that she should have swung from that noose after all. "I knew you would come eventually." She did not spare a glance at Dion, instead she ran her silver-tipped finger over the spine of the Necronomicon. "You came for this, did you not? Because it's important to you…" Kendra's smile fell into something tortured and angry, her black eyes so wide and empty that it was positively frightening. "You don't even care about that girl, do you?! You're like _them_! All of _them_! The ones who killed my Sarmad!"

With a quick motion of her hand, Dion moved to a limp standing position, taking on the appearance of some kind of grotesque puppet. Blood dripped into his only eye from a wound on his forehead, but Bookman's attention was more drawn to the knife that was clutched in Dion's hand. It glowed orange from the reflection of the candles, bright as fire.

"I'll teach you a lesson on how to take care of your child," Kendra snarled. With the slightest motion of her finger, Dion came running at Bookman, weapon outstretched before him. Her intent was his intent now: murderous. He could see it in Dion's blank expression and could tell by the way that small hand slashed at him with the sharp object without hesitation.

"Stop, Dion," Bookman commanded, in the tone that always made Lavi stop whatever he was doing to give him his full attention. Dion did not react and he was moving too quickly for Bookman to attempt hypnosis on him.

"She won't stop," said Kendra. She was leaning against the side of the brick hearth with a casual air. This was her playing field, Bookman knew, avoiding another swipe of the blade. All he needed was to even it out a bit.

"He will," Bookman replied. Instead of moving backwards when Dion lunged at him, Bookman leaned forward, hitting his apprentice right in the solar plexus. He dropped like a petal from a dying rose, falling to the floor without a sound. Kendra made a hissing noise from across the room, keeping her place in the shadows with her black eyes focused intently on Bookman.

"_You_…that _boy_—disgraceful!" Her near scream was so shrill it was almost painful, making Bookman slightly disoriented. A glass charm above their heads shattered from the rapid resonance. And then, what should not have been possible became possible: Dion got up again, charging for Bookman at full speed once more with the knife pointed toward the old man, as if Bookman's attack hadn't fazed him in the slightest. However, he slipped in some of the accumulated mess on the floor, falling forward; Bookman caught him by the wrist that held the weapon, keeping his apprentice upright. Struggling in his grasp, Dion tried to escape, but it was futile. With just enough pressure to his wrist, the knife was dropped and it clattered to the floor by their feet. "Enough!"

Bookman lost his hold on Dion's wrist as he went flying backwards across the room, but did not let that stop him. With years of practiced skill, Bookman covered the distance between them quickly, slamming his apprentice against the wall without the slightest degree of regret or remorse. His right hand was big enough to completely wrap around Dion's throat, pinning him in place against the bricks. Bookman had only a second to do the one thing that would surely end their fight. After all, it was the mind that controlled the body so all that needed to be done was delete the mind…

"_Sebastian_!" Kendra screamed, shrilly again, her magik darker and oppressive enough that Bookman could actually feel it. But the old man was focused on his apprentice, gaining the eye contact he needed. It was quick and it was fast, the name leaving his lips the trigger to righting the situation completely:

"Lavi."

The redhead's one green eye turned from dull to aware in a matter of seconds and Bookman released the grip he had on the boy's throat. Dion had been erased and Lavi was back in control, his expression confused.

"Why…am I wearing a dress…?" he asked, looking down at the lavender garment.

"Is that all you can say at a time like this?" Bookman sniped, wanting to hit him for his stupidity in such a dire situation.

"Oh, man…I thought it was just one really long, bad dream…" Lavi mumbled, looking terrified as he touched the lacy gown on his body. "It's just a really bad reality…" Bookman did hit him that time, gaining his attention.

"I do believe we have more important things to worry about," Bookman said, indicating the very irate witch behind them, who sounded like she was muttering something nasty under her breath in Creole. Lavi recoiled at the sight of her, as if she were a leper.

"Holy sh—_Ai ya, wo men wan le*_!" Lavi replied, as the whole room began to shake with dark energy. That was never a good sign.

(*We're in big trouble!)

"I'll show you, Sebastian! You'll only wish you were _dead_!" Kendra snarled. The events that followed were like something out of a Grimm Brothers faerie tale, in which the witch cast her spell—a glowing green and black mass of energy—and thrust it from her toward them. However menacing, the following event was reminiscent of a traveling comedy caravan, in which the witch slipped and fell in the mess on the floor, her curse spinning wildly out of control. Then, the comedy turned into what Athens was so famous for: its Greek tragedies, in which the witch's spell missed Bookman by a few inches, hitting Lavi instead. His apprentice's shocked expression became impassive within seconds, and then he collapsed on the floor by Bookman's feet. A burlap sack of salt broke his fall, but Lavi did not make to stand, lying still as death. Kendra, however, pulled herself up angrily, sending the table across the room, where it shattered against the wall into tiny splinters. Rage was in her black eyes as she neared them, murderous intent upon her face, the Necronomicon once again clutched in her hand.

"_Sebastian_!" she screeched, her teeth elongated and fierce looking. The book was touching her skin without barrier. Had the darkness within her heart allowed the so-called curse take control of her? Whatever it was, Bookman wasn't about to let her get close enough with another spell like the one she had previously cast. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of salt from the ripped bag beneath Lavi's prone form, hurling it at her. Kendra hissed as she reeled back from it, repelled by the very chemistry of the substance.

While she howled and spat at him from her corner of the room, Bookman took the few seconds of safety to quickly look over Lavi. He wasn't dead, merely unconscious, and had the appearance of one who was suffering under the weight of something supernaturally heavy. Cursed.

"_Ai ya_*…" Bookman murmured to himself, his attention turning back to Kendra when she had recovered, moving slowly this time toward them. She was predatory again, the firelight casting shadows across her caramel skin.

(*Damn it.)

"It's the Curse of the Living Death," said Kendra in a voice like poisoned honey. "Death can't come fast enough~" She clutched the Necronomicon in her hand, holding it above her head, maniacal gleam in her black eyes. The Kendra that had some remaining grasp of sense had gone, giving birth to this demonic priestess of darkness. "But Death will come to you without pause. Are you ready, Sebastian?" She was mustering up her energy again to cast another spell, this one making the room feel much heavier and more ominous than before. This intent was to kill.

There was nowhere to run to and even if there had been, it would have been impossible to make it there to avoid the path of the spell. Besides, if Bookman moved, Lavi would be struck once again. If the first curse didn't kill him, the second one would, that was certain. The old man moved slightly to the side, his foot crunching on a broken piece of china that had shattered after Kendra had smashed the bureau with his apprentice. What had caught his attention was not the sound, but the shiny object he detected out of the corner of his eye. A somewhat tarnished silver tray was by the toe of his boot, its reflective surface giving Bookman an idea.

"_Disappear_," Kendra said, grinning widely as she sent the malicious energy hurtling toward him. He had only a fraction of a second to react, placing his weight on his toes to flip the tray up high enough to grab, shielding himself with it all the while hoping that it would hold out against the curse. The silver tray turned hot in his hands, almost with enough heat to burn, before it turned cool again as the spell reflected off the smooth surface. With more speed than it had come, the dark magik repelled toward Kendra, hitting her with double the force. It engulfed her in energy, her voice rising in a frenzy of agony as her body was destroyed, transforming into merely a pile of dust reminiscent of Baqer. Then, it went eerily quiet. The Necronomicon was on the floor, open with its pages facing the ceiling. For a moment, Bookman was sure he could hear soft, maniacal laughter echoing from the tone, as if it were pleased over the events that had just transpired. Bookman did not concern himself with it at that moment; instead, he dropped the tray to the floor by his feet and looked down at his apprentice. The shadow of the curse was still present in his expression and it did not dissipate as it should have done. The caster was gone, yet the spell still held Lavi tightly in its grip.

The Necronomicon sounded like it was laughing at _him_ now.

**pqpq**

The funeral was two days later. It was not for Kendra, but instead for Lady Alexandra. For years, Kendra's Craft had kept Lady Alexandra alive, but only just so. And when Kendra perished, she was not far behind.

"She's gone, isn't she?" Lady Alexandra had asked, a few hours before her death.

"Yes," Bookman replied.

"What…happened…?" the pale woman asked, turning her sickly face to stare at him. She was truly young, barely in her early forties. Such a waste.

"She was trying to save you," Bookman replied, lied. Somewhere in him, he had the suspicion that Kendra's course of action had been plain: to bring her son back to her and then to heal her mistress. So perhaps it was not a lie, but even if it was, it would give the lady comfort. That was what a gentleman did, after all. Besides, Alexandra was one of those few good people left in the world. She was someone who didn't deserve the hand she had been dealt. Such a woman shouldn't have had to suffered as she had. But not once did she complain or lie or cheat, and in return, Bookman would at least do her that kind service of sending her peacefully to that other world. She smiled tranquilly, a small smile on her lips.

"She was…a good woman," Alexandra said.

She passed in her sleep.

The funeral was nice and short. There were flowers: lilies. They reminded Bookman of the young Indian girl he had met so many years ago, now the Archive Master of the Clan. For a brief, passing moment, Bookman wondered how Dakshina was faring. He passed it off as a random bout of sentimentality.

Beside him, Lavi sat quietly, his head bowed. He was probably asleep, but it was difficult to tell with the elaborate hat that adorned his head. Strangely, even after Kendra's death, the curse still clung to him like a wet blanket. The Necronomicon described the spell as something "painful yet painless" which Bookman had already seen in the past two days with Lavi. He either was in blinding pain or felt completely numb. The pain brought out anxiety and insomnia, but the numbness caused Lavi to feel lethargic and exhausted.

"You should stay for a few days," said Sir William after the funeral. He looked smart and well dressed in his black uniform. "Miss Lillian could surely use the company." The girl in question was sitting by herself a few feet away, staring blankly at her shiny buckled shoes.

"Unfortunately, I must decline," Bookman replied, making his tone sound as sympathetic as possible. Lavi leaned against him where they stood and Bookman had to grasp the back of his dress to keep him upright. "The stress has been too much on Miss Dubois." Sir William looked concerned, kneeling down on the ground in front of Lavi, his long ponytail falling over his shoulder stylishly.

"Miss Dubois, it was an honor to make your acquaintance," Sir William said, taking Lavi's gloved hand to kiss the back of it. Bookman felt Lavi tense uncomfortably under his hand. "Please fare well in your travels and may we meet again someday." From his finger, he removed a golden ring where a ruby encrusted with diamonds resided on the smooth surface. "Take this to remember me by." Lavi made a small motion with his head and hand, as if trying to decline politely, but Sir William would have none of it. "Please. I would like you to have it," he replied, slipping it onto Lavi's finger. Surprisingly, in response, Lavi made a slow movement to remove one of the silk ribbons in his hair, silently presenting it to the kneeling Royal marine before him. Sir William accepted it warmly and tied it securely to the ornate sheath. "I shall always treasure it."

Lavi's ears were red.

**pqpq**

After leaving Lady Alexandra's mansion, they went to the University in Athens. Lavi—finally dressing his gender—curled up pathetically on a chair in the library and did not move, Sir William's ring clasped loosely in his palm. Bookman left him and went searching through the stacks, looking for the small door hidden among the rows and rows of books. The last time he had been to the Athens library, the place in question had been at the end of the Elizabethan section, but when Bookman found it, the door had mysteriously moved to a corner behind the East Asian history shelves. The old man knocked, receiving no reply from within. But he knew it was the correct door, and that was verified when the knob turned quietly, the door moving inwards slightly like a hushed breath.

"Well, well. There's a face I haven't seen in years," commented a voice from within the dark. Bookman stepped inside the room without hesitation, knowing that there was nothing to fear inside. "Go on and turn on the light. It's by your right elbow." Doing as he was told, Bookman lit the oil lamp, casting the room into an orange glow. The small, closet like room was thrown into shadowed relief. Bookman could see the stacks and stacks of papers and books everywhere, all in neat piles. The floor was clear enough to make a path for one person to walk to the desk pushed against the far wall. Behind it, sat the man who had spoken. He was rather young, though showed great age. His eyes were as white as snow.

"_Lao peng you, ni kan qi lai hen you jing shen_*," Bookman replied to the blind man before him. His name was Jee, no last name. For years, he had resided close to the Clan, on the China side of the Xizang border. He had been a sort of freelance historian, but lost his credibility during the Opium Wars between China and Britain. The result of consuming too much of the drug in question had not only blinded him, but had made people blind _to_ him. Jee had escaped from Xizang to Athens on a transport vessel by hiding in a barrel of rice for three weeks, setting up in the University through generosity and pity. They kept him in the back where no one would stumble across him accidentally. Bookman was told he did minor organizing and research for some of the more charitable professors.

(*You're looking well, old friend.)

But even with his handicap, Bookman found that Jee's information was still credible—strangely accurate for someone with such a debilitating attribute—and used that to his advantage.

"What do you need from me, Bookman?" asked Jee, tilting his head to the side. It was the light, Bookman knew, that made his eyes appear so empty.

"I'm searching for two specific volumes," Bookman said, looking directly at the other man. "Concerning Count Alessandro di Cagliostro." One hairy eyebrow rose in interest. Count Alessandro di Cagliostro was one of the most interesting men of the 1700s. Alchemist, artist, writer, sorcerer, necromancer...some believed he wasn't truly dead. The myths went that he faked his own death, only to continue to walk the Earth He Hated without aging. Bookman had a reason for his research: he speculated that at one point, the Count had been in league with the Earl of Millennium.

"Schiller's _Der Geisterseher _and Tolstoy's _Count Cagliostro_?" he asked.

"Precisely," Bookman replied without surprise, not asking how Jee knew. He had learned long ago that, like Elizaveta, Jee had his own way of knowing things.

"Those are difficult to come by," Jee replied, stroking his chin. Indeed, Bookman knew they would be hard to find, as _Der Geisterseher_ had never been completed, so only a few mere transcripts still remained. The other, _Count Cagliostro_, had been banned by almost every printing press after it had been written because of the overwhelming themes of Necromancy and resurrection of the dead. There were only thirty three copies in the known world. "But maybe I have one of them here." Jee put his hand on top of a stack of books. Directly beneath his palm was a battered copy of _Count Cagliostro_, its peeling spine with its golden letters peering right at him.

"Name your price," Bookman said. Jee had never given anything away for free when he could see, and hadn't started when he became blind. It had never been about money, it had been about favors. Favors of all kinds.

"You know, people don't look at me anymore," Jee said quietly as he stood, walking around the side of his desk, by stepping all the stacks piled on the floor. Then he was in front of Bookman, leaning forward so that the light chased away the shadows from his face, making him appear to be years younger. His straight black hair looked healthier and skin lighter. But his eyes were still white and empty. "You're the only one who…does." The book was in Jee's hand and he held it between them. "It's yours if you can make me forget."

And Bookman did.

It was all about favors.

**pqpq**

When Bookman returned later, he found Lavi in the same chair, still curled up. In the sanctioned quiet of the library, the old man could hear his pained breaths from a few feet away. The curse was gradually intensifying; it needed to be removed soon. There was a temple in Crete that had a practicing White priestess last Bookman had heard, so they traveled the short distance southwest toward the port city of Piraeus. By the time they arrived, Lavi was such a wreck from the spell that Bookman was forced to carry him through the crowds, lest face losing him in the city.

They spent the night in a shady looking hotel in the sketchy part of town near the docks. It smelled like rotting fish and salt. Perhaps it was the smell or the pain, but Lavi didn't touch food that night, remaining as a small lump under the blankets on the couch. After his shower, Bookman stayed awake to read through some of _Count Cagliostro_. It was a romance of sorts, about Count Cagliostro falling in love with a portrait of a Russian princess. She had died years before he had ever been born, but through sorcery the Count brought her back to life. He called her soul back to earth by ripping it from That World to This World through the painting.

It began raining as Bookman read. When it was getting too late and the old man was going to call it a night, he felt the bed move slightly. Lavi's red hair poked out from beneath the blankets beside him.

"What are you doing, boy?" Bookman asked, disapproval in his tone. After all, considering Lavi's age, it was becoming highly inappropriate that they sleep in the same bed.

"Cold," Lavi mumbled in reply. He was shivering so badly the bed was shaking.

"Go back to your own bed," Bookman said, throwing one of the blankets on top of his body to take with him. Lavi sighed, but complied, getting up out of bed slowly as he made his way back toward the couch.

When morning came, Bookman woke to the blazing sun shining in through the gritty windows. There was a warm weight on his feet, and he looked down at the end of the bed to find Lavi curled up like a cat beneath the blankets. He was just about to inquire as to _why_ Lavi was there, but then noticed that the ceiling above the couch was sagging and dripping, leaking from the storm the previous night. Feeling slightly guilty, he didn't say a word, proceeding to get dressed and ready. The clock on the crooked mantle said their boat was leaving within the hour.

"Wake up," Bookman said, nudging Lavi's shoulder. His voice was harsh, but touch gentle. After all, he wasn't completely heartless, no matter what he wanted people to think. Lavi stirred and moved slowly to dress, the curse sapping more and more of his strength each day it seemed. But they made it to the vessel on time and quickly got aboard with what Bookman would refer to as the 'tourist rush'. Everyone was going to the island of Crete, it seemed, for the beginning of spring. Many still held onto their religious views of visiting the temple there and leaving offerings for Demeter and Persephone to bring them good harvest for the next few months.

Needless to say, it was crowded on the decks and the bars, and the cabins were so tiny that they were suffocating. Bookman managed to find a shady place towards the back end of the boat. Some girls clad in barely anything were lying in the sun on top of some wooden crates nearby, their golden hair cascading around them in the sunshine. A few younger boys were lurking around, trying to not obviously look at the girls even though it was quite noticeable what they were doing.

Bookman ignored all of them, sitting down on a bench beneath a heavy canvas canopy. Lavi sat next to him, taking up a small space to lie down. The old man placed his palm on top of Lavi's head in a comforting gesture. He was at least capable of that. His apprentice was hot with fever and he was clutching at his chest as if it hurt him. Over the waves and the chatter from other passengers, Bookman couldn't even hear Lavi's strained breathing.

"It will be gone soon," Bookman told Lavi, referring to the curse. The redhead just nodded and closed his eye, continuing to breathe with forced breaths.

With nothing left to do, Bookman was just considering pulling out _Count Cagliostro_ from his pack to pass the time—to distract him from concerning over Lavi—when he heard the half-naked girls begin to squeal rather loudly.

"Oh, he's so handsome!" said one.

"Very much so! And foreign," said the other with a giggle.

"And his long, red hair…" sighed the third.

As they continued to speak noisily to each other, Bookman turned his head slightly to look around at who the girls were gawking at. He stiffened at what he saw: a man in a familiar black and gold uniform with the cross rose upon his breast. Long, red locks fell around his face perfectly, nearly concealing the white, mysterious mask that adorned the right side of his face. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning back on a long, black box…

It was General Cross Marian of the Black Order.

And he had just seen them.

Even from where he sat, Bookman could see the amused smile that pulled at the other man's lips as he said:

"Well, there's a face I haven't seen in a long time."

**pqpq**

Woooo! CROSS. That's all I have to say. –waves arms around- I am hopelessly in love with that man.

So, something I added in there. The part with Jee. Yeah. Some of you may have gotten that, others, no. It will be touched upon later, so don't worry if you didn't catch it the first time. Also, Sir William? Totally going to make a reappearance, no lie. I love that idiot almost as much as I love Cross…

And, yeah, I know. You guys are probably thinking: "Can't she go a chapter without messing up Lavi?" And yes, I can. Do I want to? No. And is it relative to the plot? Absolutely.

On a more serious note:

**Author's Apology: **Sorry about the delay on this update, guys. I was having a bad problem with numbness in my hands and fingers so I had to go to the hospital. I found out that I have carpal tunnel, which is going to seriously make these updates a bit slower because I have to wear braces on both hands for the next few weeks. I will to my best to get the next chapter out within the next 2 weeks, though. I promise!

Please give me love. Reviews, favorites. Anything.

My hands hurt D:

**Chapter 29**:

So Bookman meets up with Cross. How does he know him and _when_ did he know him? Exactly what's going on with Lavi and his curse? And Cross wants to make a deal…? Who is this mysterious woman in the locked coffin?

All to be revealed…next time~!

**Dhampir72**


	29. Cross Marian

**Author's Note: **Forgive the shortness of this chapter. Midterms plus finals have kicked my ass to the point of rendering me unable to sit for the rest of my life.

**pqpq**

Bookman never liked to make assumptions before considering all the facts. He was meticulous in his observations and careful in his actions before concluding something of a negative nature. But that day under the sunny sky on a boat destined for Crete, Bookman knew he was screwed. Not only had Marian seen him, but the man in question was now a gensui, the highest level of Exorcist in the organization known as the Black Order. He had to be careful.

Very careful.

Cross stood up. He was taller than Bookman remembered; his hair a few inches longer and eye a bit more guarded than it had been years ago. The white mask that covered the right side of his face was as white as the bone it was made from, shining in the morning light. He grinned that same, cocky grin as he walked across the deck toward Bookman with long strides. Behind him, he dragged a black, ornate box. It was as tall as him, chained up with a golden chain link strand. It was a coffin, and the sight of it sent the sun tanning girls running away in fear.

"If it isn't the Bookman," Marian drawled, flicking the butt of his cigarette over the railing of the boat. He leaned against the handle of the casket in a casual stance that set Bookman slightly on edge. "Never thought I'd see you again. Haven't died yet, huh?"

"Not yet," Bookman answered, as coolly as possible.

"Determined to annoy me?" inquired Marian. Bookman saw his eye flicker down to stare at Lavi, but it was only for a fraction of a second.

"Oh, yes. I merely live to spite you," Bookman replied.

"See you've got a brat now," commented Cross. "Apprentice?"

"No, my sex slave," Bookman said. Cross laughed; a kind of barking growl similar to that of a lion or large dog. "Of course he's my apprentice, you idiot."

"Scrawny," Marian added, reaching for another cigarette in his coat pocket. Bookman saw the holster holding a gun at his hip.

"Looks a bit like you," Bookman replied scathingly. "For all we know, he could be your brat."

"Heh, not likely," Cross said, lighting his cigarette. In Bookman's lap, Lavi turned slightly, his one green eye sliding open slowly to look at the black-clad man. The cigarette stopped halfway to Marian's lips, his gaze focused on the black patch Lavi wore over his right eye. His apprentice stared at Cross for a few moments, but Bookman could tell that he wasn't able to comprehend what he saw. "What are you staring at, boy?" Lavi blinked slowly, before turning back the way he had been, as if suddenly uninterested. Marian put his cigarette in between his lips and took a hit before expelling the smoke into the wind.

"What business have you in Crete?" Bookman asked, carefully. If Cross was on a mission, there were two options. Either he would do everything within his power to complete it or he would consider it worthless and not pursue it. Concerning the Black Order, Bookman had to hope that Marian wasn't seeking the two possible "accommodators" that had escaped…

"Personal business," Cross answered. Bookman looked at him searchingly for a moment, wondering if it had anything to do with the rather ominous coffin behind the general.

"I see," Bookman replied, relieved that they hadn't been followed. They could not be taken against their will to the Black Order.

_They had to go willingly._

"Whatever could your business be?" Marian inquired, his one eye twinkling a bit dangerously in the midmorning light. "Work or pleasure?" Through the curtain of smoke that lingered around the general's face, Bookman wasn't sure if he imagined the other man's stare flickering downwards for a moment to look at Lavi again.

"Certainly you can tell," Bookman answered, his gaze steady on the other man. He was purposeful when he chose his next words: "A person such as you shouldn't have to ask." Marian smirked again, giving a small huff of an amused laugh.

"You make everything sound so serious," said Cross, taking another long drag. As he exhaled, he commented nonchalantly: "But then again, since your brat is practically in the Other World, I guess I can't blame you." Bookman narrowed his kohl-rimmed eyes at Marian, unconsciously tightening his grip on Lavi's upper arm. He felt the thin limb twitch slightly under his palm, but that was all; Lavi's eye didn't open again at the touch. Cross was right when he said that Lavi was slipping closer and closer to death. It made Bookman feel something akin to fear. "Hn. Never thought I'd see the day where it almost seemed like you _cared_." Cross said this bitterly, throwing his cigarette on the deck where he snuffed it with the steel toe of his boot.

"Preposterous," replied Bookman, because it was. He would never say that he had become _attached_ to the child. Instead, the old man tried to convince himself that these feelings were because of his concern for the seat that would be left empty if Lavi were to perish.

"Still alive and still operating under 'that' aren't you?" Marian asked rhetorically, grinning. He was, of course, referring to the Clan's strict doctrine of interpersonal relationships. Attachment was the hardest thing to avoid, but the most important to eradicate in order to record history effectively. Unbiased. Impartial. "You know that 'that' won't get you anywhere."

"It may not have gotten _you_ anywhere, Marian," Bookman said. He gained some sort of satisfaction seeing Cross's expression darken at the use of his first name. "But it does work for those of us who are disciplined to see the value behind it."

"It blinds you in more ways than you know, old man," Marian replied. His tone had lost all jesting, all pretense of mockery. A single eye burned into him, the stare familiar even after all those years. The stare reminiscent of the one emerald-green eye that Bookman sometimes found himself under the intense scrutiny of…Marian grinned, breaking the tension with a gruff, carefree sounding: "But don't take my word for it."

"I will not, then," Bookman said evenly. The glaring was done with, Marian looking out to sea while Bookman glanced down at Lavi. He looked ghostlike against the dark fabric of Bookman's _kuzhe_.

"I wasn't kidding about the kid," Cross said. He wasn't looking at Bookman, that one, cold eye sweeping over the water. Searching for something he could not see. "I give the brat another day, at this rate."

"Do you know how to remove the curse?" Bookman asked. Marian's expression seemed to laugh at his question.

"Of course," Cross replied. It was never that simple.

"But," Bookman said.

"But maybe I want something from you in return," said the other man.

"Perhaps I would be willing to give it to you," Bookman proposed. It was as close to asking as he would get.

"Then perhaps I would be willing to reverse that spell," Marian said, as if it were a game.

"Name your price," Bookman answered without hesitating.

"So quick. Don't you want to think about it?" Cross asked, lips upturning in a smirk.

"No," Bookman replied. He could feel Lavi's feverish skin even through the few layers of clothing the young boy wore. There was no choice, no time to think about the consequences when Lavi's life was hanging in the balance. Whatever Marian wanted, Bookman would give it to him. And Cross grinned because he knew he had won.

"Then let's have a drink," Marian said. "Talk about the old days." Bookman felt that cautious feeling creeping up on him again, but he couldn't well refuse. Although obligation was never something that sat well with Bookman, it was all he could do in the current situation. Gathering his things first, the old man then carefully pulled Lavi up from his horizontal position and took his apprentice into his arms. His back protested, but Bookman didn't set Lavi down, all the while too aware of Cross's stare.

Even for so early in the morning, the bar was crowded. It was dark and a thick cloud of smoke hung in the air around patrons who were tugging on cigars and cigarettes. Some people stared at them as they came in, a strange assortment of people: a tall, uniformed man dragging a coffin behind him, and a short, old man carrying a sickly looking red-headed boy. The bartender was conversing with someone at the bar, cleaning out a glass when they walked in. He looked up at who had blocked out the light from the open door.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, in a heavy Greek accent. "We cannot have that in the bar. Bad for business, understand?" He was referring to what Cross had behind him and before Marian could reply, the bald-headed man looked at Bookman and added: "No kids either."

"Well then, let's sort this matter out," Marian said, walking out of the bar and back to where they had been talking previously. With a heavy thud, Cross dropped the coffin on the deck, the chains rattling with the movement. Then one gloved hand reached out and grabbed the collar of Lavi's cloak, pulling him right out of Bookman's grasp with ease.

"What are you doing, Marian?" Bookman asked, watching as Cross sat Lavi on the edge of the ornate box. His apprentice was half-conscious and sickly looking, not opposing when Marian linked a brass cuff around his wrist.

"Junior here is going to watch my _project_," Marian replied. "Aren't you, brat?" Lavi stared at the general again, but no sense of recognition or understanding lit his expression at the words.

"Certainly you jest," Bookman said, crossing his arms. "It's obvious that he is in no condition t—"

"And he'll stay that way unless you come with me," Cross answered, grinning because he knew he would win. "See, Bookman, Junior's life is in my hands." The redheaded man straightened to his full height. "So, shall we go have that drink?" He turned on his heel making his way back to the bar.

Bookman had no choice but to follow.

**pqpq**

"What is it you need?" Bookman asked, getting to the point the moment they sat down.

"Don't you want to know how I've been all these years?" Marian asked, lazily waving his hand to call a server to their table so that they could order.

"Not in particular," Bookman replied, declining the waiter's request for his drink.

"That's harsh, old man," Cross said, before turning to the man waiting on them. He ordered an old bottle of wine before signaling for him to leave. Once the server was gone, Marian leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms along the length of it, as if he were a king sitting in his throne. "But how can you understand what I want if you don't know what's happened in…how many years has it been…?" Marian was toying with him, smirking.

"Ten years," Bookman replied. Glasses and a corkscrew were put on the table, clinking against the finished wood, and in a bucket of ice, a bottle of red wine was placed between them. Through the green glass and the rich liquid inside, Bookman could still see Cross's mocking expression.

"Impeccable memory as always," Marian commented, nonchalantly reaching for the bottle. The general picked up the corkscrew with a seemingly delicate gesture, only to ruin this image when he stabbed the protruding metal end violently into the stopper. "So tell me, Bookman, how's the old profession treating you these days?"

"Certainly not as well as yours is," Bookman replied. Bookman, by no means at all were as extravagant with food and drink or dress as Cross was in his current occupation. The redheaded man took no offense to this statement, twisting the screw to loosen the cork.

"Well, you know the other side is a bit more lenient with those who hold high ranks," Marian replied with a shrug as he poured himself a full glass. If there was one thing that hadn't changed about Cross, it was his drinking habits.

"I presume being a general of the Black Order, you are entitled to certain advantages," Bookman commented. Cross's one eye glinted in the dim light as he took a sip of the alcohol.

"And you aren't talking about these sorts of benefits are you?" Marian said, indicating the expensive wine, the fine cloth used in his clothing. He smirked behind the rim of his glass. "Information is what you're getting at." An amused chuckle came after the words. "In that sense, I know more than you'll ever know."

"I wouldn't say that," Bookman answered.

"I _would_," Marian replied, leaning back in his seat again. He swirled the red wine around in his glass. "Because there are things I'm sure you'd _die_ to know."

"Then it is a fortunate thing that this conversation does not pertain to this information I would supposedly cease functioning merely to know about," Bookman said, his patience beginning to wear thin. He had more important things to do than play Marian's game, such as finding out what the man across from him desired. "What do you want, Marian? Certainly we are not here to reminisce."

"You never liked the bullshit, did you, Bookman?" Cross asked, taking another drink. His shoulder shook with silent laughter.

"No. Now please do get on with it," Bookman said.

"Have some wine," Marian offered, nudging a glass at him.

"It's ten in the morning," Bookman replied, narrowing his kohl-rimmed eyes at the lazy general across from him.

"All the more reason to start catching up. You're an hour behind," Cross said, pouring him a liberal amount. Bookman didn't touch the stuff, not amused, and instead waited for Marian to refill his own glass and then lean back again. "You're not funny." It sounded like a complaint.

"Neither are you," Bookman answered.

"You used to be funny," insisted Marian, his tone sounding bored as he took another drink.

"No, I can assure you that I have always been not funny," Bookman said dryly, wondering if it was possible that Marian was drunk already, since he seemed to be straying from the main topic.

"_She_ used to be funny," Cross said darkly, as if he hadn't heard Bookman. He was looking into the depths of his red, red wine. "Until she died."

"Whom are you referring to?" Bookman asked, not quite comprehending. Wherever Cross had been, he came back quickly, looking sharply at the old man.

"Maria," replied Marian.

"Maria?" Bookman repeated, wondering if she was the one held inside the black coffin outside. The general flipped a long strand of red hair over his shoulder, leaning forward. In the smoky yellow light, his white mask looked even more eerie than ever.

"You know what the Black Order is, don't you, Bookman?" Cross asked, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. "And you know what their purpose is, yeah?"

"Of course," Bookman answered, a bit insulted that Marian would think any less of him.

"Then you understand the situation. The situation concerning the limited amount of suitable accommodators for the substance called Innocence?" Marian inquired, pulling his lighter and brass cigarette case from his pocket.

"Yes," Bookman answered. "Not long ago, I heard that Central had insisted upon experimentation of possible accommodators because finding matches were so rare."

"Currently, they are still following that course," Cross replied, his expression dark again as he put a cigarette between his lips. "Idiots." He lit the end of it and breathed in, burning the tobacco slowly. Setting his lighter down, Marian took the cigarette between his fingers and held it there so he could speak again. "It's impossible to _make_ an accommodator. At least, with the methods that they're using now. See, they don't understand the _science_ of it yet. They don't know the full _potential_ of Innocence." Cross took another drag. "So they keep on experimenting. No real results yet, you understand. No…_successes_." Bookman watched as he flicked ashes on the table. "Which is why Exorcists are so important. One goes and gets killed, it's almost like losing ten percent of our force."

"I didn't think accommodators were that rare," Bookman commented honestly, never thinking that finding matches would be so difficult.

"Well, they are the ones Chosen by God," Marian replied, his tone turning a bit bitter at those words. "And disciples of God cannot be created without knowing _what God is_."

"How does this relate to your current dilemma?" Bookman asked, feeling as if they were getting sidetracked again. "Maria." It might have been a trick of light, but for a moment, Cross looked almost pained. However, the flicker of emotion was gone before Bookman could analyze it.

"She was an Exorcist at the Black Order," Marian answered. "She had talent. _Real_ talent. Then she went and got herself killed." Bookman still could not understand what this dead woman could possibly have to do with him. The general poured himself some more wine, sloshing it a bit messily in the glass. A few drops landed on the table, but did not stain Cross's gloves. "And now we're in a bit of a crunch, the Order, I mean. A dead Exorcist is the worst possible thing, especially at this _stage_ in the coming war." Bookman's interest piqued and he concentrated fully on the conversation. Everything else was blocked out as he focused his senses on their discussion. _Recording_.

"So what is it you want to do?" Bookman asked. One dark eye looked at him fully for a moment, a grin tugging at the corners of those lips.

"I want to bring her back," Cross said. The room felt like it had gone suddenly silent after he said this.

"That's impossible," Bookman replied.

"The Earl can do it," Marian said, taking another, longer sip of wine. "Why can't I?"

"It is Necromancy at its highest plateau," answered the old man, letting his voice drop lower as he continued: "The chances of you successfully completing the resurrection are below thirty percent."

"Actually, there is a 34.2 percent chance of success," Cross replied. The scientist in him was apparent with that figure. "And the chance of success would double to 68.4 percent if you were to help me."

"You've clearly mistaken me for someone else," Bookman said. "I am in no way qualified to help with this outlandish idea."

"You are more than you think," Marian said with another smirk. "And what a coincidence that we met here of all places, isn't it?" Bookman gripped the seat beneath him to keep his expression from giving way to complete surprise.

"You've been following me?" Bookman asked.

"You're much too hard to follow," Cross said, leaning back again as if he were at ease once more. As if Bookman's barely noticeable unease made him more comfortable with the situation. "But I calculated out your journey. I was only off by a few weeks." Bookman was right when he said that Cross Marian was a dangerous man if he had been able to locate him from half-way across the world.

"So what do you need me to do?" Bookman inquired.

"A little birdy told me you might have something I want," Cross said. "A certain_ book_." The Necronomicon burned against Bookman's back.

"It doesn't have the spell you seek," Bookman answered. "_That_ section is illegible."

"Don't worry," Marian said, knowing already what Bookman was referring to. "I already have _that_ part. I require something else."

"Such as?" Bookman asked.

"Such as the _La Magia della Camera di Rilegatura_," Marian replied, in a perfect Italian accent.

"A binding spell?" Bookman asked. Cross flicked the ashes from his neglected cigarette and took a drag, the end burning orange like a fading sunset.

"See," Marian began, expelling the smoke from his mouth and nose with one breath. "Innocence is a tricky thing. Once its accommodator dies…you're pretty much screwed. The possibility of finding another accommodator is slim to none. With an Equipment type Innocence, my objective would be impossible. But, because Maria was—_is_—a Parasite type user, the Innocence has synchronized _within_ her and still remains as a part of her body. Because of this, her Innocence still belongs to her despite her death, so if I were to revive her, the chances of Maria going berserk are high. But, if I bind her Innocence to mine, I'll be able to control both her body and her Innocence."

"Like a marionette," Bookman said.

"Not necessarily," Cross replied. "If we were bound, Maria and I would be able to double our strength. And while she may not be entirely sentient, Maria will protect me in battle." He leaned on the edge of the table again, snubbing his cigarette in a groove of the wood surface. "It's the ultimate force. Maybe enough to even face the Earl himself." Bookman couldn't understand the almost vengeful tone to Marian's voice. It was years of conditioning and standing on the sidelines that made the concept of bloodlust for war so foreign.

"So if I give you what you seek," Bookman said, looking at Cross.

"I'll let your brat live," Marian said. Bookman extended his hand across his still full glass of wine on the table.

"You have yourself a deal."

And they shook.

**pqpq**

After the Bookman and the General made their concord, they were spared having to talk further when the boat gave a sick lurch. Bottles and glasses slid off tables and onto the floor, except for theirs, which Cross saved before they could be wasted. People hurried to sit up from where they had fallen, looking around wildly.

"Just stay calm, everyone. Just choppy out," said the bartender, before the boat gave another lurch. Some passengers outside started screaming and their footsteps hurried by the dark bar that the two occupied. Marian made an irritated sound in his throat, throwing back another gulp of wine.

"Dammit," Cross grunted, slamming the glass down. It clattered on the table and then slid down to the edge before crashing to the floor. The boat rocked back and forth like a morbid baby cradle.

"What's happening?!" someone behind them shouted.

"Are we being attacked?!' asked another.

"Is it pirates?!"

"What do we do?!"

"Always at the worst time…" Cross said, standing up. He lit another cigarette in a lazy way, not seeming to notice the swaying lamps above their heads. Then he pocketed the lighter and unsnapped the top of his holster, pulling out a silver gun. "I guess it's time to do my job, eh, Bookman?"

"Akuma?" Bookman asked, hurrying to stand before the light above his head fell on their table. Cross managed to swipe the bottle of wine before it was destroyed.

"Only a few," Marian said, pocketing the bottle as he walked towards the exit. In the doorway, Bookman saw him turn to the right, shooting at something the old man could only hear. A cloud of heavy smoke obscured Cross from sight for a moment before it was blown away and the general's red hair was the only thing Bookman saw before he disappeared. Hurrying after him, Bookman stayed far from the railing closest to the water, moving with one hand against the wall of the main frame of the boat. He could hear Cross's footsteps ahead of him and Bookman hastened to follow, listening to the shots and screams from the akuma as they confronted Marian.

They were after Cross's Innocence no doubt. Because he was a general, it was more likely that his Innocence was stronger to the akuma, which was what drew them to this boat. Besides, why else would they…Bookman stopped, holding the sleeve of his cloak to his face to filter out the smoke. The akuma were after not only Marian, but Maria as well. And while the general could protect himself, Maria _couldn't_.

And Lavi was chained to the box that held her corpse.

**pqpq**

Oh no! Lavi's in mortal danger again?! Don't judge me. It makes me gleeful.

So, sorry about the break I took from this. I just got a little fed up waiting for Hoshino's new chapter and then when it came, it wasn't anything special. That's when I decided that I don't give a shit if this isn't "canon" anymore. I'm going to go my own way, and if it ends up differently from the main story, that's okay. Because this is _fan_fiction after all.

And I really love Cross. –molests-

He was the focal point of this chapter it seems. Since not a lot is known about him and his relationship with Bookman, I did a lot of guessing and making stuff up. In the manga, Bookman says that he knew about Marian's akuma-conversion ability (which will come up in the next chapter or so) and a few other things that led me to believe he knew Cross prior to coming to the Order. Also, I was fascinated with how Cross was able to bring Maria back to life, much like the Earl, so that's going to be the coolest shit ever this side of next chapter. At least, I hope so. And I hope you like it as much as I do.

Because I like Cross a lot. -keeps molesting-

And. Yeah. I'm hopefully going to update this every two weeks. As a result from the poll, it seems people want an update about twice a month. I'm going to do my best for you guys, but in turn, please drop me a **review** or two, okay? This story takes a lot of time to write and when I have 200+ people watching this, I would like some feedback. Just a request, not an obligation. I just want to know what you think, because I loves you.

But not as much as I love Cross. –molests him again-

Anyway, catch you next time.

Peace, love, and happiness

(And here's to not failing my exams, or yours for that matter!)

**Dhampir72**


	30. Struggles

**Author's Note**: My apologies for the lack of updates. I've gotten frustrated with life, it seems, which has affected my writing. However, I've been having dreams about this story because I miss it so much. Hopefully I can give you something good, yeah?

**And thank you for over 400 reviews! You're all AWESOME!  
**

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With the knowledge that his apprentice was once again in mortal peril, Bookman faced a conflict within himself that he did not want to analyze. He realized in that moment, among the smoke and panicked screams, that he had fallen out of sync with his represented façade. The Bookman was one who did not fear and did not love; whose mere existence was to record fact from history, only to be erased himself among pages of hidden information that would never be read. Bookman understood this, and yet, that cold, familiar feeling had crept over him. It was the same as it had been many times before: back among the ruins of Qandahar, in the jail cell in Ungheni, finalizing in the dark war of shadows that had occurred in a noblewoman's basement in Athens. All of these occurrences had two things in common: the fear and Lavi.

The emotion could be debated, analyzed, and defended, but it was still fear. Fear itself was not the problem, however. Feeling fear in a situation where the self was in danger was inevitably human nature. But this feeling was different because the fear was born of _attachment_. And the attachment was to the redheaded boy that had joined him in his travels as his apprentice. It was dangerous, to say the least. That sort of fear could get Bookman into a place he didn't want to be. The place where all he could concern himself with was that child's safety.

Gunshots on his right, artillery firing back above his head, forming holes in the wall Bookman was following. Dropping lower, the old man moved forward into the unknown, searching for the redhead with trepidation weighing his footsteps. His foot tangled in something heavy and Bookman looked down: it was the golden chain that Cross had wrapped around his mysterious coffin. The same golden chain that the general had attached to Lavi. Grasping the end of it, Bookman used it to guide his way through the heavy smoke, coughing into his sleeve as it got worse. Eyes watering, Bookman finally came across the sleek, black coffin. It had been turned over, most likely from a hard throw; the planks of the boat's deck were buckled and splintered around it. The coffin and the ruined deck, however, were the least of his worries. Lavi was not anywhere nearby, and Bookman gripped the nearby railing to support himself. The heart in his chest was hammering so loudly, beating a strange, panicked tattoo on the inside of his ribs. Lavi was gone.

"_Jiji, what's that?" asked Lavi, standing above him in the dim light._

"_Don't call me that," Bookman answered, nudging him aside with his elbow. "And get out of my light."_

"_Panda, what's that?" Lavi tried again._

"_That's not any better," replied Bookman, not looking up from his mortar and pestle. _

"_Panda-jiji, what are you doing?" asked Lavi, poking at some gypsum Bookman had in a small pile on the table before him._

"_You'd better watch yourself, kid," Bookman growled._

"_But what is it?" asked Lavi, curiosity coloring his tone and expression._

"_Smell it," Bookman said, holding up the stone bowl. Lavi did so, and then promptly gagged, holding his throat. _

"_It smells like the rotten eggs Manas and Ganesa had under their desk for a few months," Lavi replied. Bookman shook his head, thinking about the two idiotic twins back in Xizang. Sitting down on the mat beside him, Lavi looked at all the ingredients on the table, as if trying to put together what each one individually meant before combining their meaning into one. "It's medicine," he said finally, glancing up at Bookman with a puzzled look. "For bones?" _

"_Yes," replied Bookman, surprised that Lavi could ascertain that much from mere ingredients on the table. "It's to relieve arthritis." Lavi looked confused, until Bookman explained it to him in Nepali. _

"_Your bones hurt?" clarified Lavi, making a somewhat worried face. _

"_Yours will too someday," said Bookman, putting down his instruments. "Let me see your hands." Lavi let Bookman look at them. His wrists were so small, hands unblemished by ink stains, and Bookman could tell just by the shape that his hands would suffer the most damage in his life. "You're predisposed to it, see here." He pointed out the shape of Lavi's forearm to his wrist and palm. Just the way his weight would lay on his nerves and bone, Bookman explained, would leave him with crippling arthritis and carpal tunnel when he aged beyond fifty. _

"_That sucks," commented Lavi, looking at his hands once Bookman released them. So small and with the ring finger that was slightly crooked because of an uncared for break many years ago. _

"_Indeed," Bookman replied, going back to his work. _

"_Doesn't it hurt to do that?" Lavi asked, nodding to the pestle held in Bookman's right hand. Any repetitive motion was painful, but the further south they went, the less irritated it became._

"_In this warmer climate, not so much," Bookman answered. _

"_Well, let me do it," said Lavi. "I can't mess it up, right? It's just grinding stuff up." Lavi did possess that quality about him: he would do anything to please Bookman. Not to mention he was a sponge for knowledge. And because Bookman's hands were aching, he handed the work over to Lavi, who attacked it with serious vigor. It actually made Bookman chuckle lightly and place his hand momentarily upon Lavi's head in affection_.

_"There's hope for you yet."_

The gunfire had gone silent, pulling Bookman out of his ridiculous sentimentality. Perhaps his age was catching up with him, where he sought intelligent company to share tea and secrets with on warm summer nights. Foolishness, he had to tell himself over and over again. If Lavi had been thrown overboard and killed, it would not matter. He had to keep repeating this to himself, not questioning, only accepting. But if it would not matter, why on Earth did Bookman feel like his pounding heart would _stop_?

"Oi, old man," came Cross's voice from the clearing smoke. His dark outline stood on the other side of the casket, silver gun by his side. "You dead?"

"Sorry to disappoint you," answered Bookman, in control of himself enough to keep his voice from trembling. Losing another intelligent companion would be nothing new to him and Bookman did not fear being solitary; alone. As he walked closer to the general, he steeled himself and arranged his expression back into normalcy, thankful that no one could see the trembled hammering of the Heart He Was Not Supposed to Have.

"Heh, it takes a lot to kill a Bookman, doesn't it?" said Marian. Bookman could see him better now, his red hair among the gray, the burning end of a cigarette between his lips. "Hopefully your kid's made out of the same stuff, hm?" With that said, Cross flipped open the lid of the coffin with the toe of his boot. Inside upon the red, silk cushions was a body wrapped in black bandages. Beside it, Lavi lay wide-eyed and rigid on his back, skin as sickly white as a corpse's. He looked frightened past the point of being scared to death. "Guess so. Looks like Junior's had enough for the day though," Marian mused aloud, flicking the ashes from his cigarette as he reached forward and picked Lavi up out of the coffin by the collar of his cloak. Depositing Lavi on the ground by Bookman's feet, Cross closed the casket and quickly secured it with the golden chain again, using a binding spell to make sure it was locked tightly.

Within seconds after this, the captain of the ship was hurrying over to them, speaking in fast Greek to Cross, apparently angry about the near destruction of his ship among other things. While distracted with this, Bookman looked down at his traumatized apprentice, touching his hair to obtain his attention. One glassy green eye looked up at him and Bookman felt relief soothe his tensions with a quiet sigh.

"Are you all right?" Bookman asked. Lavi blinked slowly, as if trying to process what the words meant with his slow, still cursed body.

"Jiji…he put me…in the coffin…" Lavi answered shakily.

"Yes, he did."

"There…was a body in there…"

"There normally are corpses inside."

"I think…I have to throw up."

"Go and take care of that, then," Bookman said, helping him to stand up before nudging him in the direction of the nearest railing overlooking the side of the boat. Lavi went and retched quietly for a few moments as Marian explained the situation to the captain of the ship in flawless Greek. The man in white stomped away after a moment, enraged.

"At least I didn't sink your boat, asshole," Cross said, taking a careless drag from his cigarette. Bookman was not amused by Marian's antics and he narrowed his eyes at the redheaded man as he came closer. "Captain wants us off the ship."

"You mean, he wants _you_ off the ship," said Bookman.

"No, I mean _us_," Cross replied, snuffing out his cigarette on the broken deck beneath the sole of his shoe. "So get your shit. They've got a boat waiting for us." Bookman only had the pack on his back, so he did not require going to retrieve anything save for his apprentice. Marian seemed to be on that, however, walking over to his apprentice, who was sagged over the lowest rung, most likely exhausted from his illness. "You too, brat. Let's get moving." Cross grasped the hood of Lavi's cloak and pulled him upwards, striking his head with a resounding crack on the metal railing above him. Lavi let out a small sound of pain, but didn't fight as Marian dragged him across the deck toward the place where Bookman stood. "God, I hate kids," he muttered, dropping the child on the ground by the old man's feet, substituting him for the casket, which he shouldered with ease.

"Ow…" Lavi whined softly. Bookman was sure that if the curse didn't kill him, Cross would, and resolved himself to not let either of those things happen, taboo attachment or not.

"We have to go," said Bookman, helping Lavi stand. Cross's heavy footsteps were gone, replaced by the angry stares and whispers of crewmen who stood watching nearby.

"_Xiong meng de kuang ren*…_" Lavi muttered weakly, clutching his head as he swayed on his feet. Bookman steadied him and led him to the boat, silently agreeing.

(*Violent lunatic)

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"At least they gave us a boat," Cross mused. They were adrift in the sea in a rickety, wooden craft, watching as their ship sailed away into the distance. Behind them, the coffin floated unnaturally on the surface of the water, secured to their boat by two strands of strong chain. Above them, the sun shone mercilessly hot and blazing.

"This is a piece of shit, Marian," Bookman replied, crossing his arms over his chest. He had no idea why he and Lavi had been included as Cross's accomplices, but it was definitely getting the short end of the stick, that was for sure. Beneath his seat, Lavi was curled up under his cloak, seeking refuge either from the heat or Marian's drunken grasp. And drunk the general was, drinking straight from the bottle of wine he had taken from the bar when the entire fiasco had started.

"We could be swimming, old man," said Marian.

"Please, by all means go and do so. Perhaps you'll drown and it will be one less thing to worry about," Bookman replied.

"No need to be so harsh, Bookman. We're friends, right?" Cross asked, taking another sip of wine. "Well, maybe not. But we're not enemies."

"Perhaps you would like to redefine our relationship as I have already done," Bookman suggested coldly.

"Touché. What's the big deal, anyway?" Cross inquired, throwing his boot on the edge of the boat carelessly. The craft rocked unsteadily, but at least it didn't tip over.

"Perhaps if you recall, I have a certain apprentice quite near death as of now, who you will only help _after_ you've completed your experiment," Bookman replied, quite agitated. "So do forgive me for wanting to completely disembowel you where you sit so undignified."

"That's rough, old man," said Marian with a lazy grin. He rummaged around in his coat for another cigarette. "If you want to get there so badly, just say so."

"If we would have remained where we were, we might have actually gotten there within the day," Bookman replied, not saying what Marian so wanted to hear.

"Okay, okay. Jeez. I guess I've got other shit to do as well," said Cross, putting his wine bottle between his feet, corking it tightly. "So just shut up and get ready." Before Bookman could ask what idiotic scheme Cross had thought up this time, the general before him had removed his glove, conjuring a translucent orb above his curved fingertips. Beneath his breath, he murmured some language too quickly for Bookman to identify. Sorcery. "Hang on," he advised, reaching his arm behind him, to where the conjured light would just about be touching the water. A fraction of a second later, the boat was speeding off at ridiculous speed, faster than anything Bookman had ever experienced before. The wind blew by their faces with enough force to cut their flesh and within moments, they were passing by the ship that had abandoned them over an hour previously. The wooden craft skimmed over the water at such a speed that it wasn't long until they spotted land. Crete was there before their eyes.

"Incredible." Bookman couldn't help but utter that word, amazed at the skill the general behind him displayed. But that word had no sooner left his lips when the boat gave a terrible sound. Less than a mile away from land, the craft gave out, its wooden boards flying in all directions from the stress of the spell used. As it exploded, the three passengers were ejected forward and thrown into the cool surf. Beneath crystal blue water, Bookman felt his pack expanding, bringing him to the surface quickly without even having to swim very much. When Bookman was topside again, he was a few strides from the beach, but around him he saw no sign of the other two redheads or the crazed general's coffin. Latching on to a nearby plank of wood, the old man rode gentle waves towards land, catching sight of another floating bag several feet from him. Grasping it when he was near to it, Bookman gave a great tug, dragging his apprentice to the surface. He didn't gasp for air upon rising, causing Bookman to hasten to the beach in order to give him medical attention. He was getting too old for this constant strife.

"If you're dead, I'm going to kill you, brat," Bookman growled, throwing his apprentice on the sandy shore once they reached it. The force of that alone sent Lavi into a coughing fit and he curled up on his side in a miserable ball as he brought up whatever sea water he had inhaled.

"I…hate…this…" Lavi groaned quietly from beside him when he was through. Bookman nodded, shaking out his cloak. Because of the material, within a few moments it had expelled all the water, leaving it as dry as their packs, which had been constructed out of similar textiles. Dark eyes scanned the water, searching for indication that Marian had emerged from their disastrous expulsion alive. At the sandbar up the cove, Bookman spotted the redheaded general walking with his black casket on his back; the wine bottle was held loosely in his right hand.

"What a spectacular show," Bookman said dryly, once Cross was within earshot.

"We got here, didn't we?" Marian replied, his boots squishing as he walked in the soft sand. "So don't give me shit." With a quick motion of his hand, the coffin dropped to the ground next to Lavi, covering the small boy with sand. Cross took no notice of this, drinking a swig of wine before corking the bottle again to set on the ground. After that, he proceeded to ring out his hair, sitting on the edge of the coffin as he did so. Bookman silently watched, tapping on his arm as he waited for Marian to light a cigarette ("At least they're still dry!") before looking around the beach.

"I wonder how far off course we are," Bookman pondered aloud, staring up and down the rocky shoreline.

"We're close to the shrine," answered Cross, removing one boot so that he could dump the water out of it. "Saw it when we were out there." He pointed vaguely out into the ocean, putting his shoe back on before repeating the action to the other.

"So we're nearby Agios Nikolaos," Bookman prompted, looking for a way to get up the side of the cliff towards civilization.

"Probably," Cross answered, sounding like he couldn't care less. "Either way, let's get out of here. I need a drink." As he said this, the general picked up his wine bottle and sloshed the remaining liquid around inside.

"You're a drunk," Bookman said.

"You wanna go, old man?" Marian asked, turning around to face him. Even though Bookman knew he could probably take the other man down, he remained silent, allowing Cross to pick up his coffin without another word and make for Agios.

"Come, let's go," Bookman said to Lavi, who hadn't moved from his fetal position on the beach since they'd gotten there. With what looked like agonizing movements, Lavi obeyed. He was covered from head to foot in sand, so Bookman made him step back into the surf before they proceeded to follow the sorcerer up the sandy slope.

**pqpq**

They found lodging in a room overlooking the sea. Marian hoarded in on this deal, and before they were even in the room, he had called the bed and the first bath. It was a small establishment with little furniture, but a nice breeze. They decided to use the coffin as a sort of morbid coffee table and it set before the couch.

"You're going to have to sleep on the floor," Bookman said to Lavi, once Cross had gone into the bathroom and locked the door. One dull, sick eye looked up at him from the place where Lavi had curled up beneath a small writing desk.

"…kay," he answered.

"Just hold on for a while longer," Bookman told him. "Marian will remove the curse after tonight." He nodded slowly in understanding, closing his eye before pulling in on himself like a dying animal. Bookman had to resist the urge to touch him in an assuring manner. The only way to still his fingers was to push away the concern, the feelings of attachment, the memories of the fear he'd felt when it seemed like Lavi was dead. Bookman had to take all of that and lock it up inside a box. Kindness was something he couldn't show, because Lavi had to learn. Bookman had to teach. This life wasn't genial, so he couldn't be either.

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"How long does it take room service to get here?" Cross asked loudly that evening, when he and Bookman were pouring over the Necronomicon, lain out over the top of the glimmering, obsidian coffin. It was quite disconcerting when Bookman felt like he could hear the evil of the tome before them, a sinister laugh echoing among shadows. Was Maria's body quaking with excitement beneath them?

"Does it matter? Just find what you're looking for," Bookman said, annoyed. The door to the bathroom opened and Lavi emerged, his appearance haggard and ill. From where he sat, Bookman noticed how deep the circle was beneath his only visible eye with a slightly red tint to the lid. His fever was worsening, which meant the curse would soon be done breaking Lavi's body down to the point where he could barely rise. Following after that point would most undisputedly be death.

"Oi, brat," said Cross, sitting up with the now-empty bottle in his hand. "C'mere." It appeared that it was painful for Lavi to oblige, but after a few long suffering moments, he was standing obediently in front of the redheaded man; he swayed slightly where he stood, but didn't make a sound. "Go check on that room service." Before Bookman could point out that Lavi was in no condition to do so, his apprentice spoke.

"No," he said. Aggravation rippled through Cross's frame.

"What'd you say to me, boy?" he asked, apparently not used to being opposed.

"I said 'no'," replied Lavi, clear and articulate despite his state. One gloved hand reached out and grasped Lavi's chin. From the angle, Bookman could not see Marian's expression, but he had a full view of Lavi's unwavering green stare. What was it their gazes were exchanging in that moment of time?

"Worthless boy," said Cross, releasing the child somewhat forcefully. Lavi stumbled and fell backwards against the coffin, sending the book and papers flying everywhere. The redheaded general stood up and pulled his coat on. "I'm going out. Find that spell, won't you, old man?" And with that said, he left the flat with a resounding slam. Bookman knew then that it would be another day before Cross would even consider reversing the spell placed upon Lavi. His hands made fists when he felt doubt creep upon him. Would Lavi make it another twenty-four hours?

"Jiji…" said Lavi shakily from the floor. "I'm sorry…"

"It isn't your fault," Bookman replied, taking Lavi's thin elbow to give him support to stand.

"Are you mad?" Lavi asked, much like he had in delirious fever the night in Ungheni.

"No," Bookman said, leading Lavi back over to where he had slept before, beneath the desk on the far side of the room. It was by the heater at least, so the damp from the floor during the night wouldn't affect him too badly. "Marian is a very difficult man."

"I don't…like him," said Lavi, his words sounding slightly confused, matching the state of disorientation he seemed to have fallen into. Bookman made him lie down on the thin blanket and flat pillow they had procured from the linen closet. As he did so, Bookman tried his best not to notice how Lavi's bony body sounded upon the mahogany floors. It just brought to attention how small and helpless Lavi seemed and reminded Bookman that it had been a while since his apprentice had been able to eat. "But…he's not a bad man, is he…jiji?"

"Why would you say that?" Bookman asked, draping Lavi's traveling cloak over his sickly shoulders.

"The…lady told me," Lavi answered sleepily. The overhead light above Bookman's head caught Lavi's eye when he shifted slightly, but the dilated pupil gave no reaction to the sudden increase in illumination. Bookman moved his fingers through Lavi's hair, finding a swollen knot at the nape of his neck. As if a curse wasn't bad enough, Lavi had a concussion on top of it. It must have been when Cross had manhandled him back on the ship. Bookman felt something akin to protective rage run through his blood, but he managed to quell it before it completely consumed his thoughts. Instead, he kept his fingers gentle in Lavi's hair, a soothing gesture to hopefully lull his ill apprentice into a restful slumber.

"Who?" Bookman inquired. A hazy green eye fluttered closed against a flushed cheek, before a single name was uttered softly against his worn traveling cloak:

"Maria…"

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Short update is short. Sorry guys, I've got work to do. I have the next chapter written, which I will hopefully get posted next week for your enjoyment.

Due to the number of positive reviews concerning this story it will **not go on hiatus**. But because of my increased workload, you're going to be looking at shorter chapters like this one instead of my long-winded 30+ pages you have been getting. I hope this is okay, because I realize now that this is the most convenient for me.

And (just for funsies) I thought I'd share with you the inspiration for this chapter.

Go to youtube and search thelonelyisland and listen to a song called "I'm On A Boat". For those of you who know this, can you imagine Cross standing up with his bottle of wine screaming: "I'm on a BOAT motherFUCKER don't you EVER FORGET!"

-shot-

Ahem, I will return shortly with your next update! Thanks for your love and support, everyone.

**Dhampir72**


	31. Sorcery

Thanks for the amazing amount of feedback, guys: Harmony283, Cormick, stoneygeek, OO, Razeasha, BlueFox of the Moon, zenbon zakura, Sandy11-1990, NellaXIval, blueballad, kenpachi-sama, Uzumaki-Angel-15, RoboInTheRoom, , skrblr, kuzon234ray, Snese, Begger4mcgregor, Yofune-Nushi, Lohikäärmesielu, and everyone else for adding me to their favorites/alerts lists. Here's your new chapter as thanks!

Warning: I'm way too tired and sick to proofread this. Please let me know of any errors you might find. Thanks!

**pqpq**

Bookman found the spell they were searching for at some early hour in the morning. It had taken him so long because of the book itself and the dark aura that seemed to be attempting to grasp onto him as he read. Whispers of seduction, knowledge, purred in his ears and Bookman could have sworn sometime during the moonlit evening, he'd heard Maria singing a malicious song to herself beneath the black lid of her coffin. It wasn't that he was afraid, but rather apprehensive about this book. Perhaps it did contain the negative energies of a curse after all, as Bookman wanted nothing more to do with it.

In essence, it took a while for him to locate what was sought. Between the laughing and the singing and Lavi's so soft, barely there breathing, Bookman had his share of distractions. Eyes aching, he read the section pertaining to the incantation in question: _La Magia della Camera di Rilegatura_. It was a complicated binding spell that required not only the initial eternal bonds, but also another requisite: the _Sangue Vincolante Magia_. Bookman's eyes narrowed at the description, his frown deepening. Blood magic, the most dangerous and permanent kind of magic, had to be performed in order to achieve one's goal.

Cross was in for some heavy spell craft.

Closing the Necronomicon, Bookman wrapped it in several layers of cloth, bound it with a belt, and shoved it the nearest drawer. It quieted the evil somewhat and Bookman was able to extinguish the lights without any further concern. In the dark, he could hear the roar of the surf outside, distant thunder, and Lavi's nearly inaudible breathing. Then a few hours later, as the storm had just begun to rage outside, the sound of loud boots came from half-way down the stairs accompanied by light giggling woke Bookman from sleep.

"Oh, Cross," gasped a woman's voice from the stairwell. "O-Oh! Not here! Anyone could see us!"

"That's the point," came Marian's gruff reply. Within moments, Bookman could hear the creaking of the stairs and balusters, heavy breathing, and the other sounds that accompanied casual sex with a stranger in the middle of the night. They continued two more times before calling it an evening; Bookman could almost have sworn he heard Maria's hiss of rage from within her coffin. As the door swung open and light pooled into the room from the hall, Bookman could smell the booze, sex, and smoke that emitted from the other man. It was no mystery where he had gone. The floor vibrated as the door shut with a resounding slam and Marian walked forward, placing his boot atop the lid of the casket that had begun to quiver with fury.

"Don't be jealous, Maria," Cross said, lighting a cigarette in the dark. "You know you're the only girl for me." Smoke curled around his face like something otherworldly and Maria breathed out an envious sigh.

Outside, the storm continued.

**pqpq**

By morning, the storm had not relented, dawning to gray, ugly skies and rain pounding upon the roof relentlessly. It was dark inside with no natural light and Bookman was forced to rely upon the illumination of several candles in order to see properly in their room. The door to Cross's room was shut and Maria was quiet as death inside her tomb. Beneath the writing desk, Lavi lay white and so unmoving that Bookman had to strain his ears to catch the sound of breath.

Lavi didn't have any more time left.

"Marian," Bookman said, standing outside the general's room. There was no response, as he expected, even upon the third time saying Cross's name. By that moment, Bookman rejected all pretenses of control and propriety, sending a well-placed kick to the area beneath the knob. The door flew open, swinging loudly on its hinges, creating a loud, cracking sound upon slamming into the nearby wall. Immediately before his eyes, Bookman was met with the silver barrel of a gun pointed directly at him. He did not quaver in the slightest.

"What, old man?" Marian growled irritably from beneath the blankets, his gun unwavering despite the position he was in.

"You need to fulfill your end of the bargain," Bookman said, not shying away from the weapon aimed at him. Instead, he nonchalantly crossed his arms and stared at the angry general, who had yet to appear from beneath the quilts. He smelled like stale beer. Ashy cigarettes littered the tray next to the bed.

"Nothing doing," said Marian. "You know the deal. I don't heal that kid until you help _me_."

"I found your spell. When you put it into affect is up to you. I've fulfilled my end," Bookman replied, narrowing his eyes. "Get up and deliver your part of our concord, Marian."

"Or what?" Marian asked, cocking his weapon. Bookman heard the bullet rotate into the chamber.

"Don't challenge me, Marian," Bookman said dangerously. "You know I'm not someone to be trifled with." If there was one thing that Cross should have known, it was how dangerous Bookman's agility could be, using just the right about of pressure on those certain parts of the body that could paralyze a man for life. And then there were the fights where his opponent didn't even see him coming...

"That kid's on the way out already, huh," said Marian, mostly to himself beneath the blankets. His gun spun backwards with a well-practiced flick of wrist. "This better be worth my fucking time." The silver weapon was slammed down on the bedside table, sending up a cloud of ash; some of the gray landed upon the white half-mask lying there. "I need white candles. Salt too," he said, sitting up; the blanket fell to expose his haggard, hung over form. "And sage. Fresh shit, nothing stale." Red hair was pushed over the general's shoulders, but the right side of his face remained hidden in shadow. Bookman's eyes were not deceived by such tricks of light, years of training allowing him to discern the dark line that marred the right side of his face, culminating in some imperceptible shape upon his forehead. "Well?" he asked, noticing his stare. Sliding his mask into place returned Marian's appearance into one of normalcy again and he turned toward Bookman, annoyed: "Get on it, old man."

Bookman left the room, closing the door shut behind him with such force that the entire room trembled. It would not be hard to find the list of ingredients that Marian had listed off to him, as Agios flourished with such items reserved for the veneration of the Greek gods that guarded the island. Within two shops' distance from the hotel, Bookman was able to locate the candles and the sage, but had to walk further to the nearby mill to retrieve a bag of salt. By the time he'd returned to the hotel, Bookman's cloak was soaked with rain. The old man could only hope that Marian was awake. If not, Bookman feared he might destroy the red-haired general. However, upon returning, he found that the main room had been cleared, the furniture pushed against the walls. Maria's coffin was gone and Lavi lay sleeping upon the couch shoved in the corner.

"It's about time you got back," Marian commented, emerging from the patio, cigarette between his lips. Bookman gave him a long suffering look, throwing the ingredients at him.

"Get it done," Bookman said shortly, leaving no room for argument. Cross made an annoyed face, picking up the sacks that had fallen before his feet. He did not open them, setting them aside on the nearby desk where a few other objects were resting. The redheaded general selected a golden censer from the line, lighting a giant cone of incense before closing it. The room smelled strongly of rosewood.

"Stand aside, then," Cross instructed, waving Bookman out of his way. Obliging silently, Bookman went to the sofa where Lavi lay in coma sleep. His hands were cold to the touch. The old man could only wonder if they would make it in time. Would the damage be able to be fixed?

"_Incenso, aria di alta raffinare, purificare questo mio spazio_, _pulita e depurata da questo luogo che ho scelto come magickal spazio_," Marian began, walking around the room in a clockwise motion. He swung the censer gently, purifying the space he was about to cast magik, speaking in low tones of ancient Italian. From the drawer in the writing desk, the Necronomicon growled angrily. "_Erbe di Madre Terra dare benedizioni qui per me, questo rito, questo sacro sfera. Pulire e proteggere questo luogo sacro santo subito la mia magickal spazio_." Once he had walked around the space three times, Marian stopped, moving the censer in the shape of the cross before setting it aside. "And now, we can begin."

Bookman knew enough about spell craft to know exactly what the sorcerer before him expected. He had bought exactly five candles and two thirds a pound of sage, which would be satisfactory enough for the reversal of the curse. Placing them upon the ground an equal distance apart, Marian drew perfect circles around each white pillar with chalk before connecting them in one, larger ring. From there, white lines connected each candle in the shape of a perfect pentagram. Lighting all five fresh wicks, Cross then took the sage and poured all the contents of the satchel into a mortar. With an ivory pestle, he ground up the herb. When it was to his liking, he set it aside.

"Bring the kid here," he ordered. Bookman stood quickly, carefully lifting Lavi from the mismatched couch cushions. It was frightening how he could feel the bones of his apprentice's shoulders and ribs. He wondered if the boy would even be able to make it through the reversal. "Lay him in the center." Bookman did so, lying Lavi down inside the circle. It was just big enough to be six inches bigger than Lavi; three from the tip of his head and three from the balls of his feet. He did not wake during this movement and Bookman believed this to be a good thing.

"Stand back again," Marian said, taking the bag of salt. The man before him was very precise about this, cutting a hole in the bag just large enough to cover the line drawn in chalk. There were no gaps; the mineral was deposited in one large circle around the pentagram, going so far as to even encircle the candles as well. "Now," said Marian, reaching for the black leather book beside his censer.

"_Purificare si, eliminare il peccato: uscita da te la tua lega_," he began in soft Italian again, reading straight from the yellowed pages as he scattered sage around Lavi's still form. "_Vi indietro, dal buio bacio avvelenato: uscita da te la tua lega_." Once the sage had been completely sprinkled inside the pentagram, Cross continued: "_Esonerare da morte, taglio fuori le tenebre: uscita da te la tua lega._" Lavi's body gave a sudden jerk, as if a magnet was pulling him upwards by his stomach; his spine arched in a way that seemed inhumanly possible. If anything, this display did not dissuade Marian, and he continued in a faster chant: "_Garantire inversione, di questa magia: uscita da te la tua lega._" Bookman watched, motionless nearby, as his apprentice moved further from the ground until only the tips of his toes and the crown of his head were touching the floor. His mouth was open in a silent, terrified scream.

"_Vi chiarezza, dopo l'incertezza,_" Cross recited, laying his book down upon the ground. The drawers in the nearby desk flew outwards, scattering pages everywhere. The Necronomicon was thrust outwards as well, sliding beneath the sofa. All around them, the furniture shuddered and scraped against the floor. The candles flickered dangerously low for a moment. "_Svegliati di questo mondo, come la rabbia risiede nel Altri_," Cross continued, retrieving the last item beside him: an empty, clear bottle. "_Mi svincolo da te la tua lega_!" As Cross said this last line of release, a black energy was thrust from Lavi's small body, immediately zooming inside the confines of the wine bottle, which Marian promptly corked. Lavi's body relaxed in a small heap inside the circle; the lights stabilized and burned brightly in the dark. It was finally over.

From somewhere in the dark recesses of Cross's bedroom, Bookman could hear Maria humming a mournful tune.

**pqpq**

"Hope you're happy now, old man," Marian said, lighting up a cigarette later that afternoon, when everything had been stored away and placed back into their original positions. Lavi was resting in exhausted sleep on the couch, his body drained from the removal of the curse. As Bookman placed a cool cloth on his apprentice's forehead, Marian brandished the wine bottle that contained the black magik. "It's time for you to keep your end of the bargain, now." From beneath the couch, Bookman procured the Necronomicon, holding onto the flesh covered volume with his fingernails to keep it from slipping out of his hold. It felt like it was _trembling_. Had Marian inspired that much fear inside a mere object such as a book?

"I don't make promises I cannot keep," Bookman replied. "Name your time and place."

"Tonight, at dusk," Cross answered, taking the book from his grasp as he went back into the bedroom. "Don't wake me up until then." With that said, he closed the door behind him and the room went silent. So quiet, Bookman could hear the rain pounding upon the roof and the rush of the waves crashing outside on the beach.

"Ji…ji…" Lavi murmured, catching Bookman's attention. The old man walked with soft steps towards his apprentice, keeping his gait unhurried so that he didn't give the impression of worry or relief.

"You're awake," Bookman said, moving the cold compress from Lavi's forehead. One bleary green eye squinted up at him in confusion. Although he still wasn't completely healed yet, the color had come back to his cheeks and his iris, giving him the appearance of death warmed over as opposed to Death himself.

"What…" Lavi asked thickly, turning his head slightly to the side. Pain blossomed in his expression like a sickly colored flower at the motion.

"Don't move your head," Bookman said, placing a stilling hand upon Lavi's neck, gently supporting his chin as he helped his apprentice lay comfortably on the pillow again. "You have a concussion." Lavi blinked, perplexed.

"Oh…" he answered after a moment of processing this information. His left eye fluttered to a lazy close. "Hurts…a little…"

"It's going to," Bookman said, feeling the knot at the nape of Lavi's neck once more. It had swollen considerably since the night before. With luck, its size would reduce with rest and less stress to Lavi's body. Without good fortune… "In the meantime, sleep. You'll heal faster." The redhead made an acquiescing sound, sighing tiredly beneath Bookman's palm.

"Jiji…" Lavi murmured again.

"What is it?" Bookman asked, pulling the blanket up to Lavi's chin.

"Can you…stay…?" Lavi inquired quietly. Bookman had nowhere else to be, but he didn't express this to Lavi. Instead, he nodded, placing the cool cloth back on his apprentice's forehead.

"Of course."

**pqpq**

"This must be illegal."

"You've got to be kidding me. You care about that shit? Last time I checked, the Bookmen weren't too keen on following the rules of society."

"A completely different point entirely. Let me put it to you this way: where do you think we are?"

"A temple."

"Without permission, at night, where you are going to…fill in the blank on this one."

"In that sense, I think you mean blasphemous instead of illegal," Marian answered, setting the coffin down on the marble floor. It echoed in the hall of stone around them, sounding similar to the booming thunder outside.

"On the contrary, Necromancy is illegal in the Society's eyes," Bookman replied, following behind him. His boots squeaked in an annoying tattoo on the slick floor. "Perhaps this is unwise."

"Don't back out on me now, old man," said Cross, throwing his wet hair over his shoulders. From his Exorcist coat, he pulled out a sheathed dagger. Exposing the steel, it reflected the lightning that moved from cloud to cloud beyond the tall pillars of marble around them. A cold wind from the ocean blew inside the partially opened temple, making Bookman shiver, even more so when Marian brought the tip of the blade to his arm. "This is finally getting to the best part." Without even the slightest bit of hesitation, Cross cut his flesh. Blood gushed from the wound, covering the blade crimson. Dropping the knife to the ground, the redheaded general pressed his palm against the bleeding injury, looking mad in the storm's erratic light. Maria rattled inside of her coffin; the Necronomicon felt like fire in Bookman's hands.

"Watch," said Cross, removing his bloody right hand. With a quick flick of his wrist, a pentagram appeared on the floor, looking like ink upon marble parchment. "And see…" Marian tied off his wound carelessly with a strip of cloth from around his neck, quickly moving Maria's coffin to the middle of the magik'd circle. "I'm going to perform something that even the Earl himself can't do." The storm increased outside, the surf spraying salty wind into the temple. But Marian was too concerned with his work to notice and Bookman was too busy watching with two open, recording eyes to be bothered by the wrathful nature outside. Moving his arms outwards, Maria's golden bonds dissipated and the lid of her coffin flew open.

"Maria," the general said, so softly that Bookman almost didn't catch it over the wind and the rain outside. "Are you ready, Maria?" A form rose delicately from the casket: a corpse wrapped in black bindings, looking like a demon in the darkness. From her throat glowed something green in the night. Blood red lips smiled from a gap between shadowy wraps. Cross was grinning too. "To be mine forever?" Vermillion lips parted in sensual splendor.

And she sang with enough clarity to wake the Gods in their stone chambers.

**pqpq**

Wow, that took me a while. Fun though. Really fun. Italian is harder than I remember it, haha. Anyways, I hoped you liked your speedy update! Keep up your awesome reviews and this might just end up being a weekly updated story again. How does that sound?

For those of you curious, Cross's first incantation is a real Wiccan purifying spell. I never used this one myself when I practiced, but my friend swears by it:

"Incense, air of high refine, purify this space of mine.

purged and purified be this place that I have chosen as magickal space.

Herbs of Mother Earth give blessings here to me, this rite, this sacred sphere.

Protect and cleanse this sacred place Hallow it now as my magickal space."

The second spell Cross recited was something I made up:

"I purify you/Purging the sin/Release thee from thy binds

I bring you back/From Hell's poisoned kiss/Release thee from thy binds.

I relieve you from Death/Cutting away the darkness/Release thee from thy binds.

I ensure reversal/Of this spell/Release thee from thy binds.

I bring you clarity/After uncertainty/Awaken to This World/Abandon Rage in the Other

I release thee from thy binds"

...

Too much bored in class, apparently, lol. More to come!

Love you guys,

**Dhampir72**


	32. Maria

Wow, thanks for the amazing amount of support on the last chapter: Harmony283, zenbon zakura, kenpachi-sama, BlueFox of the Moon, skrblr, NellaXIval, RobotInTheRoom, kuzon234ray, The Hecateae, pencildarts, mk17design, Begger4mcgregor, Yofune-Nushi, tbiris, Razeasha, stoneygeek, Yamamoto Kou, Reta McClain, Uzumaki-Angel-15, blueballad, Rodnii, I'm Defective, Lohikäärme, Holly-Batali and everyone else's favorites/alerts. Super fast update for you guys because of all your love.

**pqpq**

Maria was not alive.

Of that much, Bookman was certain. It was obvious by the way her voice reverberated with God-like clarity in the stone temple that Maria was not in control of her body or her song. The glowing green cross that shone through the black gauze at her throat signified to the old man that the occurrence was something brought forth by an outside power. Innocence: the cube of God's essence that had been scattered around the Earth at the time of the Great Flood. Just as Marian had said, the substance had remained inside Maria, animating her to the point of near life beyond her death.

"Maria," said Cross, in his most sensual voice, like a caress against a sweet lover's flesh. He held out one gloved hand to her, not trembling in the slightest against a backdrop of violent waves and lightening lit clouds. He was smiling in a frightening way. It was the same smile he had worn when an experiment went to his liking, back in that dark lab that smelled of surgical steel and blood. The mere timbre of Marian's voice halted her song, the hymn that still echoed softly even after it had ended. "It's time." Maria's head tilted to the side, vermillion lips turning upward in a predatory, dangerous way. There was something about it that set Bookman on edge, almost to the point of turning and escaping while he still had time. However, he remained rooted to the spot, watching the spectacle before him with observant eyes. If Marian could do what he sought, what would that make the man before him?

On par with the Earl himself?

"Come," Marian said into the darkness. It smiled back at him, moving through the black like ink on air, where obsidian straps fell into the night and on the ground like bars. She appeared before Marian like shadow, the theatre gown spilling on the marble floor in layers of ruffles and lace; her white shoulders shone in the limited light. Elegantly gloved hands reached forward with inhuman speed, latching themselves around Cross's throat in a gesture of bitter wrath. When Maria began to sing her hymn again, it was a cry tinged with jealousy, silenced when the silver barrel of a gun was placed between her ruby lips. In that span of time, Bookman wasn't sure of what he saw pass between the two, but it was enough for Maria to release her grip on the redhead's throat.

"No need for such antics, dearest," Cross said in a chiding manner. "You were always in the spotlight of my eye, my sweet, like upon that stage you loved so much." He pulled back the safety on his weapon. It echoed in the frozen temple one hundred times until the sound was swallowed by the sea. "'To die, to sleep—to sleep—perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub,'" Marian recited in perfect iambic pentameter, as Shakespeare had intended. Maria retreated from him with a hiss of rage. "'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil…'" Marian pulled the trigger on his weapon, shooting into the dark. A scream of pain rose up against vaulted ceilings even louder than the thunder in the rage of the storm outside. Black lace lay strewn across the ground where Maria had fallen, writhing in pain at Cross's feet. "'Must give us pause. There's the respect…'" With no pretense of gentleness, Marian dragged the animated corpse back to her coffin, throwing her thrashing, angry form into the casket. "'That makes calamity of so long life.'" That famous soliloquy spoken, more shots rang out, accompanied by several screeches of broken, anguished song.

"Bring the book, old man," Cross said, when the coffin beneath him had stopped rattling. Bookman did as he was bidden, nearing the general with an unhesitant stride, making sure to keep every sense open despite the disturbing scene before him. If history was to be made, Bookman wanted every minute detail. Maria was inside her casket, arms raised above her head in a position similar to that of a woman in bondage. Between her palms, Bookman could see the smoking hole where Cross's bullet had pierced through her, pinning the corpse to her bed of death. All that could be seen of her face was the lower half, where blood-red lips snarled and bared sharp, white fangs. From the mask that obscured her visage, four plumes of red unfolded themselves in a display of wrath, like those of a poisonous butterfly.

"Open it to _La Magia della Camera di Rilegatura_," Cross instructed, and Bookman did so, flipping the book open until the correct page was found. The pages hummed with pleasure in his palms, seeming to howl with excitement at what was to come. Maria let out a shriek that shook the pillars around them. Marian held her down, using his body weight for leverage over the hissing, growling corpse beneath him, leaning to read from yellowed pages the spell which would prove his worth: "_Su Luna e tutte le cose oscure, mi appello a voi per l'aiuto, riportare questa fanciulla dalla sua tomba. O Morte, liberano il vostro possente vanga_." Marian removed his glove with his teeth, throwing it aside as he continued, drawing a cross upon Maria's breast with his own blood. "_Invia il suo, spirito a me. Impegnare con carne, e il sangue. Marionette di stringhe, stringhe strettamente tra di noi_…"

As Cross continued with his incantation, Bookman kept as still as possible, watching Maria's body arch and writhe beneath the general. The glowing green Innocence imbedded in her throat shone with an other-worldly vibrancy that Bookman could not trust himself to be able to describe upon paper. However, beyond the white columns of the temple, Bookman was distracted by something he saw upon the stormy sea. Certainly it could not be… "_Questo sacrificio in nome mio. Puppet, sorgono su le ginocchia, e cantare una canzone per me, faccia attenzione le mie parole e non dimenticare, il mio si, fino a quando l'alba_..." Maria screamed so loudly that the marble floor buckled and cracked beneath their feet. Despite this, the crimson pentacle remained unbroken and Marian continued with renew vigor, dripping blood from his wound upon the corpse's ruby lips: "_Unitevi a noi per il solstizio d'eterno, rotto solo quando siamo con, bere il sangue sulle vostre labbra…_"

The obstructions at sea moved closer, Bookman noticed, his ears ringing from a hymn that had turned into a higher-pitched dirge. The cross on Maria's breast had disappeared into her flesh, sending her Innocence glowing with such radiant light that it nearly blinded Bookman's eyes. She screamed as Cross whispered his last words to her, lips hovering just an inch from Maria's: "_Vita verrà nuovamente_."

She stilled at the last syllable and the temple went eerily silent. Even the storm that had been raging outside fell quiet. The things out at sea disappeared beneath the surf, sending Bookman's alert level on high. Every part of Bookman's body was telling him that something was wrong, off, strange. A disruption somewhere in the pocket of time they currently occupied.

"Give me…the rest of the _Sangue Vincolante Magia_," Cross said, sounding exhausted, as if his energy was depleted from the force of the last spell. Bookman's certain fingers found the page in the text and held it open for Marian, who looked at it and waved him back. Bookman did so, taking several steps away from the coffin; Marian followed. With a stronger voice he commanded: "Uratagno." The coffin moved upward until it was vertical from the ground, Maria's bound body inside unmoving and dark. "Otak." The coffin lid slammed shut, echoing harshly in the temple. "Arasam." Golden link chains appeared and wrapped themselves around the casket like saffron snakes. "Aru." They intertwined and locked at the front, clicking closed with a harsh sound. "Atabano." That final word given, the large coffin gave a shudder, as if adhering itself permanently to Cross's will. Bookman had to wonder if the man beside him had truly completed his task.

He had not the time to ask.

Seconds after the final part of the incantation had been spoken, akuma appeared. Their metal bodies were slick with sea water, but they seemed not affected by this element. Marian looked up at their entry, the sound of steel moving against broken marble. There were fifteen. They were outmatched. Bookman felt adrenaline course through his veins, pumping due to the foreign feeling of being in the middle of the battlefield instead of safely observing from a distance. The Necronomicon quivered with mirth beneath his arm. It would be an understatement to say that Bookman felt uneasy, but it would not be an overstatement to say that Marian looked pleased.

"This is going to be fun," the general said, with a grin that made Bookman wonder what the joke was. "On Abata Ura Masara Kato On Gataru." The same spell Marian had just placed was reversed: the chains unlocked themselves and moved outwards, disappearing into the darkness as the coffin doors opened, revealing the woman inside once more. "Sing, Maria. Magdala Curtain."

And Marian's new instrument sang.

**pqpq**_  
_

When morning came, Bookman awoke with a pained groan. He was not somewhere comfortable, such as a bed or a sofa, but lying upon the moist earth outside. Rain was falling softly in a gentle sprinkle of precipitation as Bookman sat up slowly. He was outside the temple where Cross had brought Maria back to life. In the day, Bookman could see the damage done to the structure from the sheer destruction of her voice: the cracks that ran up the columns, the buckled marble floor inside, and the fractures that ran along the cornice. Every detail from the night prior Bookman could recall, except to how he had come to lie outside in the mud all night. The general and his coffin were nowhere in sight. Old bones shivering from the dampness, Bookman pulled himself to a shaky stand and began to trek back to the hotel.

The Necronomicon was gone.

Upon returning to their flat, Bookman found it to be in the same condition it had been left in: disarray. with furniture scattered about randomly. On the ground, the chalk pentagram had been hastily scrubbed away. Wet footprints covered the floorboards. Bookman followed them into the main bedroom, seeking the redheaded Exorcist. The Necronomicon was obviously not the only thing missing. Cross was gone as well.

The smell of the ocean was strong in the living room. Most of the footprints congregated there, close to the sofa were Lavi lay in undisturbed slumber. Nearing him, Bookman could hear the healthy sound of his breath and was able to appreciate the natural color to his cheeks that had been absent for so long. But those signs of improved condition were not what Bookman concerned himself with at that moment. Instead, it was the heavy smell of sage, the droplets of water upon Lavi's eyelashes, and the dried salt upon his forehead. The Sign of the Cross shone in contrast to his apprentice's fair complexion, drawing more attention to the symbol than ever.

Had Cross stood where Bookman stood now? What had made the general stop and perform such an act--that blessing, protective spell—that graced Lavi's forehead? What exactly had Marian seen in that one emerald eye to make him pause mere steps away from the door and lean, dripping wet and exhausted from the evening, to place such a gracious charm upon this sleeping child?

Maybe there were some things even a Bookman would never know.

**pqpq**

The Earl came that night, just as Bookman knew he would, the same way he always came. He had been coming the same way ever since Bookman could remember, standing quietly on the other side of the door, listening silently as his master and the Earl of One-Thousand years conversed. Only now, it was Bookman in his master's place, as it had been for the past fifty years, and the difference between him and Lavi was that his apprentice was not waiting eagerly by the door in anticipation for the conversation about to begin, but was rather sleeping unknowingly, obliviously, in the next room.

The windows and curtains were left open for his arrival; an invitation of sorts, almost. The night breeze caught the drapes and made them flutter like silent ghosts in the small flat. It was dark, both inside the room and outside the hotel. Bookman sat in a chair facing away from the window, cigarette in between his fingers. The smoke swirled lazily into hazy shapes before his watching eyes. There was no moon and no storm that night. More darkness.

Lavi was still sleeping; Bookman could see him through the open door that led into the bedroom. Soft, even breaths told Bookman his apprentice was truly in deep slumber and not the deceptive rest Bookman had employed as a teenager during those meetings between his master and the Earl all those years ago. Even with the dim light, Bookman could see Lavi's red hair, and the one strand that fluttered with each exhaled breath.

Then, the breeze stopped. Whatever candles had been lit earlier that evening went out, casting the room into further shadow. Bookman's cigarette glowed dull orange in the black. Natural sound ceased with the absence of movement, the curtains brushing against the wall as they fell into place. And then that was all. Quietness took over everything. The sound of Bookman's cigarette burning sounded loud; Lavi's breathing suddenly became much more audible, still deep and even.

There was nothing for a few minutes and then he was suddenly there, omnipresent almost. No footsteps alerted Bookman of his presence, but it was hard not to feel him there.

"Good evening, Earl," Bookman said, almost courteously to the seemingly-empty room.

"Good evening, Bookman," replied a voice laced with condescending mocking. "How kind of you to prepare for this audience. And here I thought you might have forgotten about me."

"Bookmen forget nothing, Earl," Bookman answered, taking an almost bitter drag from his cigarette. "Nothing at all."

"You're very curious," the Earl said, very close to the back of Bookman's chair. But the old man did not flinch or turn around, not outwardly showing his mistrust for one of the beings that held so much power in Both Worlds. "Curious in the sense that you are odd and in the sense that you and your Clan seem to be rather _keen_ on keeping tabs on myself and my family. Curious, curious. Almost nosy, I'd venture to say. They were like that, you know. All those who came before you. All _forty-seven_ of them." Bookman flicked his cigarette irritably, remaining silent. The Earl was more than happy to continue without his interference. "And you've been following my tracks for years, have you not? You've been reading the signs, I take it: reading the histories, comparing them to the present phenomena, attempting to fit the pieces together. Very intelligent, indeed. But I would expect nothing less from the Bookmen, after all." The Earl came into view on Bookman's left. His face was in shadow, but Bookman could see the outline of a tall hat and a fracture of light passing through tainted glass. He stood close to where Bookman held his burning cigarette and uttered a disapproving sound, producing an ashtray out of thin air, which he set on the arm of the chair. "Don't make a mess now."

"You've been leaving these signs, leaving me to put together this puzzle of yours. Why now, when you've been elusive and secretive all these years?" Bookman asked, looking at the dark form before him without so much as a flicker of emotion on his face or in his eyes. I couldn't be _that time_ yet, could it?

"I thought you would have figured that out by now," The Earl said, sounding almost disappointed as he seated himself comfortably in a conjured chair across from Bookman. He set his cane down next to him with other-worldly quiet and prestige. The mockery of a proper gentleman. "Certainly you've realized that the 700 year prologue is coming to an end. It's about time for the new chapter, don't you agree?"

"And what would that be?" Bookman asked.

"The complete eradication of the human race," The Earl said, with a grin like Malice itself.

"An aspiring goal," Bookman answered dryly, flicking the ashes from his cigarette, deliberately not using the ashtray as a weak means of defiance.

"Indeed. One I will achieve in time, you can be sure of that. No matter what certain _organizations_ think about the subject; despite the futile attempts of certain _generals_ to defy me," he replied, the outline of his hands moving together. "And that is why I have a proposition for you."

"A proposition," Bookman repeated, not letting it sound like a question.

"A mutually beneficial proposition," the Earl said.

"Go on," Bookman said, taking a drag.

"My proposition is for you to see history in the making: the hidden history of the end of the world."

"What light reading material," Bookman said, almost scathingly.

"Consider it," the Earl continued, as if Bookman hadn't spoken. "The Bookmen, able to watch the most anticipated event from the safest seat imaginable. No alliances, no participation. Isn't that how you like it, Si—"

"Enough," Bookman said, stopping the Earl before he could continue; before he could say _that name_ that Bookman had given up so long ago, for the life he led now. "Enough." Bookman fell quiet, his mind thinking over the possibilities, as well as the consequences.

His cigarette had burned out.

"What an opportunity, you're thinking. After all, the most devastating events in your hidden history were recorded in this same method. The Bookmen and myself have worked together before: the building and collapse of the Roman Empire, the Crusades, the Middle Ages. The Civil Wars, the Revolutions; the skirmishes, the invasions. We've seen a lot together, your Clan and I, Bookman. Why not again?" Bookman remained quiet.

The Earl spoke truths.

"Would you prefer to be out in the middle of this battlefield? No place will be safe for _unbiased_ observation. You'll most likely be caught up in the crossfire; most likely die _prematurely_," the Earl said, putting emphasis on certain words. "Certainly you know how this could affect your records. Certainly you've experienced some _hardships_ these past few years because of the events leading to this war..." Qandahar leveled, leading to Lavi almost getting killed. The Innocence that appeared, the Akuma that cropped up everywhere, the sudden revival of Necromancy and Dark Arts, Marian's mysterious words…"Accept my offer and spare your Clan. Collect the history you love so much," the Earl said, "without the consequences."

Bookman made the gravest mistake when he let his eyes flicker towards Lavi's sleeping form in the other room. It was so minute that the normal person wouldn't have seen it. Even the astute observer would have missed it. But the Earl did not.

"A soft spot? You? A Bookman who isn't supposed to have a heart?" the Earl teased, looking at Lavi. When he turned his head, the faint light from the other room cast his features into harsh relief. He wore a feral grin upon his face. "Would that heart that's not supposed to exist… _despair_ if he was killed?"

Bookman forgot to breathe for a fraction of a second. The Earl noticed and the old man cursed his weakness.

"I have my answer, then," the Earl said, grinning wider still. He sat forward in his chair, face returning to darkness. "So: a deal? The history you seek, protection from my side, and the life of your _precious_ apprentice. Do we have a concord?" The Earl held out a gloved hand in invitation, but Bookman did not take it.

"I will consider your offer, but no decision shall be made tonight," Bookman answered.

"Quite the gracious diplomat," the Earl said, anger coloring his polite tone as he stood up. "Call me and we'll meet again." He produced a card and placed it on the ashtray beside Bookman's left hand. "I await your answer." He picked up his cane, tipped his hat, and swept silently toward the window.

"Good night, Earl," Bookman said.

"Good night, Bookman," the Earl replied, and then he was gone.

The Earl was truly vanished when the light, salty breeze blew softly to the room and the flames returned to their candlewicks. Bookman picked up the card that had been face-down, read it, and burned the paper in the candle beside him. Dark eyes watched as the flames ate the delicate card, burning it black before consuming it. Consuming with flames of war and hate: the play that was about to begin. He then lit another cigarette. Through the smoke, Bookman could have sworn Lavi's eye was open, watching him. But it was shut when he looked closer and his breathing was still deep and even with sleep.

843-6455366486-3275: committed to memory.

After all, a Bookman never forgets.

**pdpd**

Wow, that was fun. I'm super tired now XDD

My CTS is flaring up something awful, so let's make this short with notes, yeah?

The bit that Marian recites to Maria in the beginning is from Hamlet's famous Soliloquy (you might recognize it from his "To Be, or Not To Be" soliloquy) from Act III, Scene I. I thought it fitting in a very geeky, nerd fighter way.

Next, the spell that Marian used was something I wrote in class because I was bored and sick to death of my lecturer. Italian's a little shaky, but I managed:

Upon the Moon and all things dark/I call to you for aid/Bring back this maiden from her grave/O Death, release your mighty spade/Send her spirit to me/Bind upon with flesh/And blood/Marionette's strings/Strung tightly between us/This sacrifice in my name/Puppet, rise upon your knees/And sing to me a song/Take heed my words and don't forget/I own you/Until the dawn/Bind us for eternal solstice/Break only when we're through/Drink the blood upon your lips/Life will come anew

The second spell is actually from the manga. When we first see Maria, Cross recites an incantation to free her (On Abata Ura Masara Kato On Gataru). The first time he says this, it's backwards, in order to bind Maria to him. When he says it the second time, it's like it is above, so that he can release her.

The significance of the number: 843-6455366486-3275 corresponds to: The Millennium Earl. Witty, is it not?

More to come next week!

Much love,

**Dhampir72**


	33. The Seeker

**Author's Thanks to all you great readers out there**: kenpachi-sama, Harmony283, KinKitsune01, Reta McClain, skrblr, Celedeen Takarona, NellaXIval, kuzon234ray, Yofune-Nushi, I'm Defective, blueballad, zenbon zakura, Wolfwood11, Maydn, Lohikäämesielu, Begger4mcgregor, Aoiro Kitsune-Chan, Yumi1345, hleexda, SilverKleptoFox (for the best and longest review ever!), Astarael-7th, Ayreia, and everyone else for their favorites/alerts.

**A special thank you** to Begger4mcgregor, who drew fanart of this story! There's a link on my bio page if you'd like to see it (and it's awesome) or check it out on DA. Thanks for the love :P

**pqpq**

Lavi had grown.

No longer was he the small, sickly looking child who appeared as if he'd missed one too many meals. After they had left Crete on route for Egypt aboard the _Poseidon_, it seemed as if the redhead finally hit his growth spurt, reaching a height that exceeded Bookman's own. His apprentice had been quite cocky about this, strutting about as if had achieved something of great importance. However, upon arriving in Cairo, Bookman had brought him down a few notches with a swift kick to the head.

"Owwww…." Lavi groaned, holding his skull. "There's no reason to get pissy just because I'm finally taller than you!"

"You didn't count my hair," Bookman said, stepping on the redhead's back to push him down to the ground once more as punishment, "Therefore, I still win."

"Sore…loser…" Lavi mumbled, spitting out sand that he had ingested upon his fall.

"Keep telling yourself that," Bookman said, lighting up a cigarette as he stood, balancing easily upon his apprentice's spine. In the golden distance, he could see the pyramids in their silent perfection among the dunes of the desert. Their destination, however, was Cairo itself. Because of legalized trade with the European continent, Egypt had boosted its economy, apparent by the population boom that had occurred in the country's capital. It was a busy city and now much larger than Bookman remembered it to be. Dark eyes narrowed in the afternoon sunlight. It would be difficult to find the man he sought in that mess of crowds…

"Can't…breathe…" Lavi wheezed from under him, pitiful enough that Bookman stepped down and left the redhead to cough. When he was through and Bookman's cigarette was finished as well, they began their journey into the city teeming with life and activity. It was in the evening when Bookman concluded that a day-long search hadn't even allowed them to make a dent in the capital. It had grown so large that even a week's worth of intensive investigation would only allow them to see half the city.

"Can't we just ask someone?" Lavi asked, over their_ molokhiyya_ that evening, stirring the soup before him idly.

"It isn't that simple," Bookman replied. "We cannot go inquiring after this person. If he hears of it, he might escape and that is not something we can afford right now." Lavi made an exhausted face at this news, pouting over his dinner.

"So, we're just going to aimlessly wander for the next two weeks?" Lavi asked.

"Precisely," Bookman said.

The redhead merely groaned.

**pqpq**

Sometime close to the end of the first week, in the outskirts of Cairo, Bookman ran into some old acquaintances. Although Bookman doctrine specifically stated that a bookman was to never make ties with anyone, the old man found it to be rather useful at times. After all, Bookman routinely traveled to specific countries during his journey, allowing him to make and develop several beneficial partnerships (of which the Clan need not know about) throughout the Eurasian continent. Because of these arrangements, Bookman could travel to the same places and be received most cordially by friends, who would not only provide him with lodgings, but information he might be seeking. Interestingly enough, the group of traders he had befriended in Algeria had moved their entourage to Egypt. Bookman would have recognized their specifically patterned tents anywhere.

"It's been a long time, Bookman," said Jahaar, shaking Bookman's hand with his long, ringed fingers. They were in Jahaar's tent, sitting on comfortable cushions around an ornamented glass hookah. Beside Jahaar, his companion, Manesh, perched cross-legged on a satin pillow. Next to Bookman, Lavi kneeled respectfully, quietly, and with an observing eye of the scene.

"It has been a long time," Bookman agreed, declining one of the six hoses of the hookah offered to him. Jahaar laughed as he breathed in the _shisha_ and expelled it between his lips.

"So what brings you to Egypt, my friend?" he inquired, his dark eyes glancing over at Lavi curiously. The redhead stared back, but with a gaze that gave nothing away. Bookman was pleased with his situated presence.

"I'm searching for treasure," Bookman said vaguely.

"Oh, really? We are in the same business, then," Jahaar replied, pressing his thumb onto the opening of the hose so that his companion could take a hit from the hookah. "Perhaps we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement?"

"Perhaps," Bookman conceded, but without promising anything. Despite being on the same wavelength with the man before him on some matters, there were certain things that Bookman would not become involved with.

"It is a small translating project," Jahaar explained. He didn't precisely say what it was he needed it for, but that was no concern of Bookman's, so long that it wasn't something that would severely alter the course of history. "None of my men can read these hieroglyphics. It is quite convenient that you've stumbled across us when we so desperately need someone of your expertise."

"Quite," Bookman agreed.

"Who is it you're looking for, then?" asked Jahaar, dark eyes boring curiously into Bookman's. The old man did not ask how he knew, just as Jahaar did ask when Bookman had inquired things of a similar nature in years prior.

"Someone very elusive," Bookman said. "A sorcerer."

"A what?" Manesh asked, after he had finished blowing smoke rings into the air.

"A hocus," Bookman amended, recalling that the words were different in the desert. Because it was so isolated, men who made the sandy wasteland their home and their business were quite superstitious. They had their own language, customs, and communicative systems in order to discern outsiders from Desert Men.

"What you want to mess with a hocus for?" asked Manesh.

"He has something I need," Bookman said, looking at Jahaar. He was a man of the desert, but also a man of great intellect. Even though it was not in the way of books, Jahaar understood the concepts of the world in a similar way that Bookmen saw it, which made him a valuable asset in the old man's mind. Jahaar would help him and in return, Bookman would do whatever he needed, within limits, of course.

"We will help you find him, then," said Jahaar simply.

"And I will help you find your treasure," Bookman replied and the two of them shook hands once more in concord.

**pqpq**

"What name does your apprentice go by?" Jahaar asked, after Manesh had left the main tent later that evening.

"Darpan," Bookman replied.

"An interesting name," Jahaar said, looking at the redhead nearby. One of Jahaar's pets—a small sand boa—had coiled itself around Lavi's wrist. One green eye studied it with curiosity, watching without blinking as the snake's tongue darted out to smell tips of his fingers.

"Indeed it is," Bookman agreed.

"He is very young," Jahaar began.

"Yes," Bookman said.

"Even younger than Seeker's apprentice," Jahaar stated, causing Bookman to look at him as if he had heard incorrectly.

"You've seen Seeker recently?" Bookman inquired, curiosity heightened. It was very rare that Bookman's route was so close to another of the Clan, even if he was in Seeker's territory. In fact, it had been many, many years since Bookman had seen Seeker. Perhaps ten, maybe twenty.

"Oh, yes. Quite recently in fact," Jahaar said, procuring a box from his robe. When he opened it, the room smelled heavily of tobacco.

"What was he doing here?" Bookman asked, taking the opportunity to light a cigarette.

"I don't know," Jahaar replied. "You bookmen are all strange and secretive. Maybe he is looking for your hocus." Bookman doubted it, but did not discredit it. After all, he and Seeker shared professions. It was possible that their interests in certain subjects could coincide.

"Did he stay long?" Bookman asked, watching as Jahaar scooped some of the _shisha_ from his box. He packed it into the bowl at the top of the hookah and covered it with a thick canvas cloth. After poking holes into it with the tip of a vicious dagger, Jahaar sheathed his weapon before reaching for a pouch of coals at his waist. They smelled like strawberries.

"In a sense, I presume so," Jahaar said. There was something about his tone that made Bookman feel like he was missing something. Just as Jahaar was lighting the coals, he said: "If you're so curious as to why he was here, I do suggest asking him about it. That's the best way to get an answer out of anyone."

"Ask him," Bookman repeated, narrowing his kohl-rimmed eyes. "So I take it that Seeker is still here, then?"

"Yes, across the way, in fact," Jahaar replied, smiling as his lips wrapped around the brass head of the hookah's hose. After he had inhaled, he exhaled while saying: "I have a feeling it will be very interesting to see two bookmen in the same place." As Jahaar laughed, Bookman could feel Lavi's curious gaze on him. He hadn't explained the hierarchy system to his apprentice yet. Of course he knew about Clan order from his time spent at headquarters, but he didn't know about the actual book_men_.

After all, there couldn't just be _one_ Bookman.

**pqpq**

Jahaar was kind enough to set them up with a tent for the evening. Bookman was grateful for this kindness and even more so because the Arab man had not shoved them into the same dwelling as Seeker and his apprentice. That would have been, not only awkward, but very tense as well. Bookman and Seeker had not left on the best of terms.

"So, you're saying that we're not the only ones, then," Lavi concluded.

"Of course," Bookman answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "How on Earth do you believe one man could record the entire history of the world?"

"Magic," Lavi said sarcastically. Bookman could tell he was put out by not knowing all of this sooner.

"Unfortunately not," Bookman replied.

"So how many of them—_us_—are out there, then?" Lavi asked.

"In total, there are eight bookmen," he said. "Sixteen if you count apprentices."

"How does it work, then?" Lavi inquired.

"We work by sectors," Bookman explained, producing a map from his bag. He unrolled it and laid it flat on the floor between them. "I am the highest ranking bookman, therefore entitled to the name _Bookman_. All those that came before us, sharing that same title, have journeyed primarily over the Eurasian continent." Here, Bookman indicated the entire landmass that Europe and Asia formed. "From there, the seven others have been assigned certain areas. Seeker records all history for the African continent. The Historian, the Finder, the Explorer, and the Journeyman take care of the Americas." With that said, Bookman indicated to each sector the bookman was in charge of in order to their title: North America, South America, Central America, and the Canadian regions. "But not all history happens on land, which defaults to our remaining two bookmen: the Recorder and the Transcriber." Bookman indicated the North and South hemispheres, split between the two of them.

"How do you archive all the history in one place, then?" Lavi asked. "When I had to help Dakshina-san, there were scrolls from all over the world. Not all of the bookmen could bring their logs there personally if they're so far away."

"Everything depends on the position of the bookman," he replied. "Because of our sector and title, we are expected to hand deliver our scrolls to the Archive Master personally. Others are shipped or transported in other methods."

"What if they're lost on the way?" Lavi asked.

"Nothing is ever lost," Bookman said, rolling up the map. Their system of organization and navigation regarding historical objects was beyond what Lavi could even comprehend. Even Bookman had been amazed upon accepting his role, viewing first hand how this method was executed.

"It sounds like Manas and Ganesa could make a killing off their invention," Lavi said, "if they could get it to work properly…" Bookman had to agree, although he did so silently. If the twins could manage to develop that technology of Portal Transfer, then the entire process would be much more efficient. It would allow any of the affiliates of the Clan to have all of the world's history at their disposal. It would be such a brilliant step forward.

If only they could get rid of those damn chickens.

**pqpq**

Bookman knew that he would have to see Seeker sooner rather than later. That left a bitter taste in his mouth, especially upon recalling their last parting. Seeker was gifted in more ways than just intelligence, which the old man found rather unsettling. While Bookman had a near perfect photographic memory, Seeker had another skill of the mind that was much more…formidable.

"You don't like him," Darpan observed, over tea that morning. Bookman looked at the redheaded boy across from him, who was suddenly at eye level. The time had surely passed quickly, Bookman mused, before turning away to fill his cup again. His apprentice had given control to his persona earlier that morning, so Bookman believed it was only fitting that he consider the boy beside him as "Darpan" instead of Lavi. It was something he was going to have to get used to.

"It is not dislike," Bookman said. Darpan raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief, but did not say another word about it. The old man knew he would be a hypocrite if he berated the boy for his astute observations. "We left on bad terms."

"Why?" Darpan asked, without subtlety.

"Recall Belgrade," Bookman instructed. That single emerald went a bit dark with the recollection of a certain man, who Ender had killed in order to save Bookman's life. It was only natural to look back on such things with conflicted emotions, especially when it concerned bringing about someone's end with their own hands. Bookman pushed him further by saying: "If you remember, the man called Baqer had a certain power over the mind."

"Yes," Darpan said, touching his throat as his persona relived the memory.

"The man we are about to see has that very same ability," Bookman replied.

"What?" Darpan asked, deadpanning at this revelation, looking as though he thought he had heard incorrectly.

"Seeker is a master manipulator of thoughts and behavior," Bookman explained. "His…_talent _has earned him a secondary name: the Mentalist."

"He doesn't…use it like…" Darpan looked at Bookman for clarification, his expression asking silently whether Seeker used it maliciously or not..

"It depends on the situation," Bookman said with a grave nod. He had been on the receiving end of Seeker's mental abilities only a few times before. It was frightening to lose oneself in that false world. Perhaps from experiencing it prior to Baqer was the reason Bookman was able to pull himself from his hypnotism. However, against Seeker, Bookman would be unable to discern reality from fantasy. The other bookman had the uncanny ability to meld the two, so that the victim did not know he was under the spell until he was already up to his waist in it. If Bookman found himself captured by Seeker's ability, there would be no deviations from reality like there had been in Baqer's world: Lavi's hair would be the same shade of red, the designs on his cloak a perfect match, and there would be exactly four buckles on his boots instead of three this time around, thereby eliminating the line between what was real and what wasn't.

That made Seeker dangerous.

"He's done it to you before," Darpan said after a moment.

"Yes," Bookman answered with a nod.

"Why?" Darpan asked.

"Disagreements," Bookman responded vaguely. Darpan's cheeks puffed out in annoyance. Withholding information from the redhead, no matter what name he wore, was a peeve of his.

"He wasn't your lover or anything sick like that, right?" Darpan asked. Bookman glared at him with enough force to send his successor cowering for safety.

"Don't be ridiculous," Bookman said. He could barely stand being in the same room as Seeker, let alone sleeping with him. It was enough to give him goose bumps and feel a little nauseous.

"So, let me get this straight," Darpan said, once Bookman's glare had lessened to its usual state, "he's a mind-manipulator."

"Yes."

"And you don't like him, admit it."

"I do not care for his presence."

"And in return, does he like you?"

"I don't believe so."

"So… we're going to go into a small area with a man who can manipulate our minds, whom you hate, and who also has a personal vendetta against you."

"Yes," Bookman said.

"This makes me feel so much better about everything," Darpan said with a sigh.

**pqpq**

Seeker was four tents over from them, diagonal from Jahaar's meeting cabana, and directly across the way from the constructed well in the middle of the site. Bookman and Darpan made the short journey to his dwelling place after breakfast, which eventually ended no matter how long the old man attempted to prolong it. They had barely stopped outside the tent when a voice called out to them from the inside:

"Come in, Bookman."

"Nice knowing you," Darpan muttered in hushed Nepali, before they entered. It was dark inside; heavy scarves and cloaks were draped over the supports. Bookman could smell crude soap and cleaners. Apparently they were doing laundry inside. He found it to be rather ridiculous when the scorching sun outside would dry things quickly, but then again, Seeker was a bit unhinged.

"Now there's a face I haven't seen in years," said the voice again. It was hiding behind a navy shawl. The Clan's insignia wavered for a moment before the cloth was pushed aside, revealing an older man in his late fifties. His skin was dark from Africa's brutal sun, but the hair on his head was pure white. Bookman noticed its length with a bit of jealousy.

"Seeker," Bookman said shortly in greeting.

"Yes, I do believe it's difficult to say 'it's good to see you' don't you agree?" The Seeker said, standing up from his cross legged position. He was so tall that he had to crouch, which only served to annoy Bookman further.

"Unfortunately, though I abhor having to agree with you, I must condescend myself to concede this fact," Bookman replied. Seeker laughed at this answer, but it wasn't as maniacal as the last time Bookman had heard it, so he felt a little more at ease.

"Out of all of us, you always were quite the comedian," Seeker said, clearing some space before waving the two of them to sit down. Bookman knelt before a low table covered in an assortment of items: tools, books, papers, compasses, gems, maps, clips, pens, inkwells, feathers, and something that could have been a sexton. Darpan followed Bookman's lead silently, putting his blind side towards the old man. Apparently Bookman had made him uneasy with his revelation earlier, which accounted for his strategic placement; it would allow him to see if anything harmful came his way. But, it seemed as if Seeker had completely forgotten the incident that had led to the animosity between them, judging from his nonchalance. However, Bookman was no fool. A true Bookman never forgets _anything_, which made him wonder what purpose Seeker could have for dismissing the incident.

"I do believe you are mistaken," Bookman said, not enjoying the small talk.

"What brings you to Egypt?" Seeker asked, moving quickly away from the formalities that they were not inclined to give.

"I'm in search of a sorcerer," Bookman said, without pretense. Seeker was a member of the Clan, which meant that, despite their hostility towards one another, Seeker could be trusted. To a degree.

"Good luck," replied Seeker, reaching for a pipe in his pocket. As he stuffed it full of tobacco, Bookman itched for a cigarette. But it was a nervous habit and not one he wanted to share in the face of a man he disliked. So instead, he suffered in silence as he watched Seeker fix his poison. After he took his first puff, Seeker finished with: "Cairo's full of them."

"Have there been any rumors circulating about a certain sorcerer who can use Necromancy?" Bookman asked, knowing that, if anyone would know, the man across from him would. The bookmen had their ways, especially in their territories. But Bookman felt like he hit a dead end when Seeker stroked the end of his pipe thoughtfully. That gesture always meant Bookman was about to receive an answer he hadn't been hoping for.

"I can't say that I've heard anything recently," Seeker answered after a long moment, shaking his head, "Although, there were some whispers about something happening in Crete not too long ago..." Bookman knew, that was for sure, and fleetingly wondered what had happened to Cross and Maria, but it was only a passing thought.

"Does the name Simon the Scrivener mean anything to you?" Bookman asked, moving right along.

"Ah, now that rings a pretty bell," said Seeker, almost immediately. It was an entire lifetime of training that kept Bookman from looking completely surprised. "There was a hocus that went by the name Simon over in Shadeemarket."

"Black?" Bookman asked. If he had one of the copies of the Necronomicon, there was no doubt that he was a Black user.

"No, quite Light," Seeker said, tugging on his pipe. "Did charity work and made potions for the sick. Quite an interesting man."

"You've met him?" Bookman asked, his surprise heightening.

"Yes. The Lightest Light I've ever seen," Seeker said, leaning forward across the table. "He saved my apprentice from the brink of death." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, giving Bookman a grin. "And you said you thought he was Dark."

"I was merely inquiring," Bookman answered, holding his ground, despite how close they had become. However, they were rescued from the silence and awkward nearness when a voice rang out from outside:

"Ustadh!" The flap of the tent pushed inward, admitting a person of small stature. When Bookman's eyes were able to focus beyond the glare of the sun, he realized it was a young girl. Her footsteps halted upon seeing them, brown eyes wide. The red vase in her hands must have been carrying water, as it sloshed with her sudden stop. "Ustadh?" she said again, this time in question.

"Sagira, come," Seeker said, waving her closer. She came obediently, setting the vase down next to the small table. When she sat, it was with perfect pose and posture. So perfect that Bookman saw Darpan attempt to sit a little straighter beside him. Seeker looked from the girl back to Bookman: "This is my apprentice, Sagira. Sagira, this is Bookman. Be polite."

"_The_ Bookman?" she asked, not seeming impressed. Her nose was naturally tilted upwards, Bookman noticed, giving her the appearance of snobbery instead of beauty. Although her skin was flawlessly golden and her hair as perfect as any Egyptian queen, Bookman found that he did not care for her, much like he did not care for her master.

"Of course. I would not have introduced him as otherwise," Seeker said to her, still puffing away on his pipe without reprimanding her for her rudeness. Bookman was aggravated and wanting a cigarette. Next to him, he could sense that Darpan was becoming agitated as well, but by what, Bookman was uncertain of. "Forgive her. She's young."

"Impressive that you have chosen a female as your successor," Bookman said, ignoring her much like Seeker had ignored his own apprentice.

"That's offensive," Sagira said.

"She was most fitted for the position," Seeker replied, making a motion with his hand to shush her. Sagira did, but did not pout. Instead, she glared. And with two very important elders in the room with her, Bookman thought she made a wise choice by directing the force of that at Darpan. However, maybe it wasn't the best choice after all.

"What?" the redhead asked gruffly.

"I find you so terribly asymmetrical that I cannot help but observe you," she answered.

"Oh, do you?" Darpan replied with a raised eyebrow, a challenge in his voice. Bookman put his hand on the top of Darpan's head to keep him from rising. If he hadn't, the old man had the suspicion that his apprentice would have launched himself over the table to strangle the smirking girl. Even though Bookman had no problem with bringing her down a few notches, he would not allow murder to happen before he'd had a cigarette.

After that, it was fair game.

"I do not doubt the intelligence of women," Bookman said, putting more pressure on Darpan's head as a warning not to rise to her bait, "and I do find it quite admirable of you to stand up to Clan law."

"Anything to fight such an unjust law. And to be upheld by the most ignoble of people! Isn't the Chancellor dead _yet_?" Seeker asked. At least they could be allies on hating the ruling authority. Seeker had one positive out of his barrel of negatives.

"Unfortunately not," Bookman said, "Which means we have to bear the injustice of his rule for as long as he breathes."

"Shame," Seeker sighed, looking upwards thoughtfully as he smoked.

"The pigment of your hair clashes horribly with your physical appearance," said Sagira, her words intended for Darpan, who had finally calmed down enough to sit without squirming. But her words seemed to just ignite that irritation once more. Bookman had to resort to holding him back again. "Really, you should do something about it. It's quite the _eyesore_."

"I'll give you an _eyesore_," Darpan promised, holding up his fist.

"It seems you've already got _one_, Cyclops," she said. Darpan shot up suddenly, but Bookman yanked back on his cloak to pull the redhead back into his seat.

"Stop," Bookman said, all the promises of pain and torture in his voice. Darpan immediately went quiet and went back to kneeling, obediently following Bookman's orders. Across the table, Sagira grinned like the cat that just ate the canary. Or perhaps several canaries.

"Remember what I told you, Sagira," said Seeker, in a tone that allowed Bookman to know that he was not the only one who would be threatening his apprentice. "If you can't say anything nice, say it in a language the other person doesn't understand." Bookman thought this was the worst advice ever given and wondered why on earth he believed Seeker would actually guide his hostile youth appropriately. "Now, as we were saying? I do forget where we left off."

"It is not relevant," Bookman replied, wanting to wrap things up quickly. Both Seeker and his apprentice were wearing on his nerves. "Instead, it is my turn to ask you why _you_ are here in Cairo."

"Ah, yes. Such a wonderful city, isn't it?" Seeker said, straying from the topic. It was much like a certain Chancellor, of whom they had been speaking not even five moments before. Perhaps that was a reason why Seeker aggravated Bookman: his terrible likeness to the old coot that ran their otherwise prestigious Clan.

"Quite," Bookman replied, a bit testy. Sagira said something beneath her breath in an African language that Bookman was unable to identify. It must have been nasty, because she said it through the cruelest smile while looking at Darpan. In return, Darpan replied in Nepali that he wished she would fall into a vat of boiling oil and poisonous snakes. At the same time.

"But the true reason I am here is for the same reason Jahaar took his troupe so far from their homeland," Seeker said, grasping Bookman's wavering attention with this information.

"You're treasure hunting now, Seeker?" Bookman asked.

"What do you think we are, Bookman? Treasure hunters. Always have and always will be," he said. Sagira said something with a venomous edge beneath the smoky curtain from Seeker's pipe. Darpan actually smiled when he said, with just as much malice: _Oh, your hair is so lovely. I'd like to choke you with it._

"And what is this treasure you seek?" Bookman asked, attempting to ignore their two apprentices, who were glaring daggers at each other.

"There is a tablet in a nearby tomb that speaks of its location," Seeker replied. "Jahaar wants this information so that he can have the object. I merely want to _see _it." Another snarled insult from Sagira. Darpan replied with something as equally nasty. They were reminding Bookman of snarling dogs on leashes, merely barking and spitting, but not biting. Not yet.

"And what is this item?" Bookman asked.

"It is unclear exactly what shape it manifests," Seeker answered, looking at Bookman with a hard gaze through the smoke, "but it is an object that has been spoken of in many a folklore in this region. Whoever possesses this object can control the most important element in this region: he becomes Master of the Wind. He can control every breeze, every gale, every thermal. He can become—"

"A god," Bookman said. It made sense: the person who controlled the wind controlled the movement of the rivers, the direction of rain, the path of sandstorms. He could prevent crops from being destroyed, people from dying because of drought, or he could do the destroying and the killing at a moment's notice. It was the ultimate display of power. Otherworldly power. Perhaps it _was_ Otherworldly. A cube of God's Essence, to be gifted by those worthy on earth? As Bookman wondered this, Seeker grinned and nodded, excitement shining in his black eyes at the prospect of witnessing such an event: of watching Man become More Than Man.

"A god!"

**pqpq**

Woo! I'm not dead! (Sort of. I'm dead tired now DX)

**Stuffs:**

Lavi's persona name "Darpan" means "mirror", which is actually a huge part of the next few chapters, so watch out for this.

The word "Ustadh" is apparently an honorific/the word for "teacher" in Arabic.

Also, watch The Mentalist. Because Patrick Jane is the hottest man alive (besides Cross, but Cross wins at everything, so he doesn't count on primetime television)

**Semi-Important Author's Ramblings**

So, I wanted to say, as a quick last note, that I have a real outline! After my computer crashed this summer, I lost TONS of stuff. Like, years-worth of research on this story T___T But! I rewrote it all and now I have it saved on my hard drive, my flash drive, my external hard drive, a floppy disk, a webspace, and I also have a hard copy. _Bookman_ might actually be completed sometime soon! Well, not for another twenty chapters or so because the outline looks like the story ends around chapter 50. Another woo!

Show me love and we'll start doing **WEEKLY UPDATES** again!

**Dhampir72**


	34. The Tablet

**Author's Note**: So, ahem, I'm posting this a bit late. I'm sick…again…

Thanks to all the wonderful people out there for reviewed: **Shruika** (who wrote a very lovely comment) **Kenpachi-sama** (who needs a break from stress and terribly long papers D:) **mk17design** (who gave me 10,000 tiny hearts) **Reta McClain** (who nearly wrote my obit, thanks for holding off on that XDD) **Harmony283** (who is spectacular in every way) **fall in snow**,** frostbit**, **silverfire113**, **weaverofstars**, **victoryfighter24**, **SilverKleptoFox** (for another amazing review) **axisfiraga**, **XxxLavixAllenxxX**, **Holly-Batali**, **SagaMoon**, **NellaXIval** (for always being awesome) **Astarael-7****th** (who I might call upon for some correct Chinese insults)** Lohikäärmesielu** (who has been so faithful) **RobotInTheRoom**, **HA15**, **Yamamoto Kou**, **Begger4mcgregor** (with thanks once again for the fanart of epicness) **Maydn**, **awkward-flyingfish**, **kuzon234ray**, **winegoldsayuri**, **Ayreia** and everyone else for your favorites/alerts/subscriptions/support.

**pqpq**

"I hate her."

"That's understandable."

"She called me _Cyclops_. Did you _hear_ that?"

"I was there. Of course I did."

Bookman watched as Darpan paced the small length of their tent. It was the first time Bookman had seen him get so distressed about something, especially when it was over such a trivial matter. But the old man was not about to interfere, as he was enjoying his fifth cigarette since leaving Seeker's tent, giving him a much-needed relief. At least he had an outlet, Bookman mused, his dark eyes following his fuming apprentice as he continued to walk back and forth with an agitated gait.

"_Cyclops_? What the hell? _Really_?! They're barbaric giants that live in caves. _Caves_. I am not a barbaric giant who lives in a cave. So where does she get off calling me a Cyclops?!" Darpan fumed aloud.

"I do believe she was referring to—" Bookman stopped when Darpan halted and glared at him, as if daring him to continue. Although it would have been momentarily amusing, Bookman did not want to push him to that limit. There had been many a time when Bookman was aggravated to the point of losing all patience and composure, but Lavi had respected not to shove him over the brink and into that sea of wrath. It was the least the old man could do in return. Not to mention the fact that he was finally beginning to calm that nervous twitch with some much needed tobacco and the last thing he needed to do was get Darpan riled up enough to break that hazy peace. "Never mind. Do continue."

"I _know_ what she was referring to," Darpan snapped, pointing at his only visible eye with an angry motion, "but what _I_ was referring to was her inability to properly form a factual observation! And she calls herself a _bookman's apprentice_? Has she even _read_ The Odyssey?! Can she _read_ at all? That's the question!"

"You are experiencing the negativity of criticism," Bookman said, making a gesture for his apprentice to sit. Darpan did so, but with his arms crossed and a huff of unrelenting annoyance.

"I've been criticized before," Darpan insisted with a sniff, looking at his fingernails as if suddenly, truly interested in them.

"You have, yes, but this time the criticism is coming from someone closer to your own age," Bookman replied, snubbing out the butt of his cigarette. Immediately he lit another. Seeker had turned him into a chain smoker, he thought in passing.

Fancy that.

"I've been criticized by people my own age before," Darpan said, looking at him fully with a serious gaze. "Think back to when we first met. Oh, those days were golden, weren't they?" Bookman did recall Lavi being bullied by his peers, but that was different. The redhead had never taken _the bait_ before.

"That was different," Bookman voiced aloud, "because you were smarter than the lot of them combined."

"_She's_ not smarter than me," Darpan said, a sharp edge to his voice.

"No, I do believe that you two are the same level of intelligence," Bookman said, adding before Darpan could interrupt him: "despite her apparent lack of manners and propriety."

"She can't be at the same level as me," Darpan insisted.

"If she is Seeker's apprentice, then she very well can be," Bookman answered, puffing at his cigarette. At least Darpan had stopped pacing. And yelling. That was a relief in and of itself.

"I still hate her," Darpan said, as if that settled everything, "and not because her knowledge of Greek literature is as poor as her lack of observational prowess."

"Should I even inquire as to what possible flaw you could despise so much?" Bookman asked. Darpan's frown deepened and he made fists in his lap.

"She's a _girl_," Darpan replied bitterly.

"That's actually quite pathetic," Bookman said, "when you determine that you dislike someone because of their gender."

"I only hate it because I can't _hit_ her," Darpan explained, heat to his voice. "If _she_ was a _he_, then I'd give _him_ quite the _eyesore_, that's for sure." Bookman looked at the redhead and then at his cigarette.

At this rate, he was going to have to start drinking as well.

**pqpq**

A day later, Bookman met with a large group of Jahaar's men outside the largest cabana. Their goal was to set off towards the temple that housed the hieroglyphics that Jahaar needed translated. Bookman had urged the expedition to be held a day earlier than planned, as he wanted his part of the bargain to be filled quickly so that Jahaar could keep good on _his_ promise as well. Early that morning, before the sun had even risen, Jahaar had sent out several of his best investigatory members to hunt down information regarding Simon, which only left the translation of the tablet as settlement. Camels had been provided for the journey across the desert. There were twelve of them lined up, their backs heavy with supplies and several canteens of water each. In addition to Jahaar and Bookman, there were nine other men present. His kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed at this disproportion. Who was the spare camel for if there were only eleven men present…?

"Good morning!" greeted a cheerful voice from behind them. Approaching the group was the very person whom Bookman had hoped—almost _prayed_—wouldn't be joining them: Seeker himself. He was so _tall_ and his hair was so _long_ that Bookman wanted to smoke for the rest of eternity. But he was running low on stores of tobacco and the group was getting ready to make the excursion across the fifteen dunes towards the temple, leaving Bookman without any other alternatives except to deal with it and move on.

"You're really not letting me come then?" Darpan asked, approaching Bookman with a pathetic expression.

"No," Bookman said without looking at him. "You are to stay here."

"Why?" Darpan asked, with nothing short but a childish whine to his voice.

"I told you why," Bookman replied seriously. Darpan had asked him the previous night for the reason of his abandonment in the camp while Bookman went ahead with the group. The old man had closed his book, put down his cigarette, and gestured him closer. Almond incense burned low in its brass temple as candles cast a yellow glow over pages and pages of history. It was in quiet Nepali that Bookman spoke the words to his apprentice: _Because I don't trust them_. In truth, it was the closest that Bookman would ever be to saying aloud that he cared. Darpan, most likely on Lavi's submissive—but still present—consciousness understood this. It was with a serious nod that Darpan handed him the small travel scroll that Bookman had requested from his things before leaving.

"Yeah, yeah," Darpan said, pouting mostly for show, Bookman could tell. "Don't fall off your camel."

And that was probably the closest term of endearment Bookman would ever hear out of his hard-headed apprentice.

**pqpq**

Looking back on things, Bookman should have known it was a bad idea, as he wasn't the only bookman to leave his apprentice behind.

"I thought they would be able to reconcile their differences," Seeker said, upon relaying the information to Bookman: that he head left behind Sagira to 'watch out for' Darpan while the two of them were away.

"If we both return to two dead successors, you will be to blame," Bookman replied. Seeker just laughed: an annoying, throaty sound that made Bookman ponder homicide for a brief moment of time. The desert's monotony and Seeker's unrelenting, irritating presence had almost pushed Bookman to the brink of losing his composure. But he grasped onto it with all his training, because Seeker wasn't worth it.

"I never thought you would be one to worry about someone else," Seeker said, for conversation.

"I never though that you would choose such a _gem_ as your apprentice," Bookman retorted, a sneer to his voice that he couldn't quite mask.

"Every human being has their flaws," Seeker replied in a near sing-song voice. He was too _happy_. That bothered Bookman.

"But even an ape can be taught politeness," Bookman said in return, agitated by not knowing Seeker's true purpose for accompanying them; for incessantly _bothering_ him. On his right, Bookman noticed Jahaar's steady gaze on them, laughter lighting his eyes. The Arab had probably invited Seeker along for the pure intention of entertainment, judging from his amused expression.

"Your apprentice wasn't any better behaved than mine," Seeker said, striking a certain one of Bookman's nerves. To have his successor compared to Seeker's girl was one of the greatest insults Bookman had ever been given.

"Then I do believe you were not paying attention," Bookman replied scathingly.

"No, I do believe I was," Seeker said, letting a few beats of silence pass between them before continuing: "A bit violent, yours is."

"He was provoked," Bookman defended.

"Even restraint can be taught to an ape," Seeker replied, turning his head to give Bookman a smug grin. Bookman's hands clenched on the reins to his camel, his jaw set with anger that he refused to let appear on his face. He had enough control to manage that, as well as the itch for the kunai at his ankle, which would have looked so much better buried in Seeker's eye socket. Instead, Bookman calmed and continued, not wanting to be bested.

"Your apprentice verbally abused mine," Bookman said.

"A bookman's successor is required to learn restraint in all situations. Once emotion is controlled, there would be no outbursts like that one," Seeker answered.

"Please, cease your preaching. At least take your own advice if you must continue to prattle on," Bookman said, but would not let Seeker speak again until he had put forth his own piece. "Your apprentice displayed none of this talent you speak of. There was no subtlety, no grace, and absolutely no warrant for her behavior. She outright attacked my successor with the most immature and unforgivable of insults to his physical appearance. That shows neither tact nor respect and you should be ashamed to consider her conduct anything but embarrassing."

After that, it seemed as if Seeker had nothing else to say.

**pqpq**

Upon arriving at the temple between the fifteenth and sixteenth dune east of their camp, Bookman found himself staring at a marvelous structure. There was something about Egyptian architecture and design that was so fascinating to him that he never ceased to be amazed by the ancient creations of such an advanced civilization. Despite the fact that it was partially buried in the sands, abandoned, and left to the elements, there was a certain majestic quality about the place that whispered royalty from times long passed.

"Here it is," Jahaar said, "the place that the locals call The Temple of Wisdom." After dismounting, their group made their way towards the structure. Passing through two identical columns exactly twenty feet apart, they reached a solid stone wall directly in the center of a perfect square. It was a seamless diamond, decorated with deeply engraved symbols. Despite its beauty and meticulous craftsmanship, Bookman did not see an entrance.

"Is there no entryway?" Seeker inquired aloud, studying the rock before them with a curious gaze.

"There is a way inside, but we must wait," Jahaar said, indicating something on the ground beneath their feet. At first, Bookman had presumed the deformity to be the result of erosion: when the ground buckled upwards due to compression and heat from the earth. But when several of the men backed away, a large circular pattern was revealed on the ground. From the exact center—the point where Bookman believed two stones to have pushed upwards—there was a raised slat of rectangular sandstone.

"A sundial?" Bookman asked, kneeling down to observe it. There were no symbols to mark direction or intent, but the sun was casting the thinnest shadow straight ahead: right in the direction of the wall before them. Bookman then realized that the dial was so large that its shadow stretched the entire way to the temple's outer barricade. When the sun had moved just the slightest degree above them, the shadow changed position as well, burying itself along a single groove on the sandstone. That vertical line became wider the longer Bookman stared at it, until it was big enough to fit several people through at a time.

"Remarkable," Seeker said, stealing Bookman's own words. To think that the Egyptians had been able to create a door that could only be opened when the sun was in a certain position in the sky! And so long ago, with such limited technologies!

"We do not have long," Jahaar said, pulling his camel along behind him. "Come." Bookman was forced to abandon the sundial to do as the man asked. Everyone followed his lead, tugging the reins of their camels towards the entrance. Bookman had to wonder what time restraints they had. Would it be a few minutes, a few hours, a few _days_? Also, Bookman had to wonder as to the reasoning behind bringing the camels inside as well when they would have been fine waiting outside with a member or two of the party. But amongst the mumblings of the men behind him, Bookman learned that a few people in their group had previously been locked inside for several days, lost in the catacombs and labyrinths. When they finally found their way out, they were left to travel across the desert, starving and thirsty because their camels had been chased away by a dust storm. At least this way, they had their transportation _and_ all their supplies with them.

"Light the lanterns," Manesh ordered from somewhere in the front, when daylight had disappeared behind them and given way to darkness. Twelve dull, orange lamps soon lit the winding passageways. It was too dim to see by, but Bookman was able to spot numerous markings on the walls around them: stories that had never been included in the Old Testament or any other work besides the Bookman Documents.

"We will camp here," Jahaar said, when the narrow corridors had given way to a spacious antechamber. Grouping about, the men began to set up tents and prepare other items that spoke of more than a mere afternoon's stay. The camels were rounded up and corralled in a large alcove, where they could not escape if spooked by any member of the party. More lanterns were lit, casting the cavernous room into stronger illumination. With more light, Bookman could see the movement of the group around him; Seeker's eyes were black as coals beyond their passing forms. Bookman knew better than to be caught too long in that stare.

"Now, Bookman," Jahaar beckoned him closer, "or should I say book_men_?" His gaze turned from Bookman to Seeker, who also approached. The old man's frown deepened as he neared the Arab. "How lucky I am to have the two of you at my disposal. It truly is an honor to have your skills. Should this treasure amount anything, I would be happy to reward you for your efforts."

"You are doing me a favor," Bookman said with a shake of his head. "I require nothing else."

"You are doing me a favor, also," said Seeker smoothly, "and I require no other form of payment." Bookman had to wonder _exactly_ what it was that Jahaar was doing for Seeker, but he did not ask. Jahaar seemed pleased with the arrangement.

"Your loss," he said, clapping his hands together. "Now, shall I show it to you?"

"Lead the way," Seeker said. They took a lantern each and followed Jahaar towards a doorway on the far side of the antechamber. A long coil of rope sat just outside of the dark corridor.

"I had my men form a trail," Jahaar explained, as they began walking, "I did not want to waste time searching for the tablet during every trip when we could so easily mark its position."

"Excellent idea," Seeker replied, in such a way that Bookman couldn't help but think he was brown nosing slightly. To add to his annoyance, the two of them were making quick work of the tunnel while Bookman strayed further behind. He cursed their long legs, his eyes focusing on the swinging of their golden lamps up ahead. But then suddenly, their illumination disappeared, leaving Bookman by the solitary light of his own oil lantern. It flickered dangerously low, but did not go out. The rope was still upon the floor, so Bookman did not fear their sudden departure ahead of him. Instead, he found himself looking at the wall to his left. His light cast the stone into harsh relief, showing the shadows of characters.

The silhouettes of Gods.

It was Thoth's temple: the Egyptian God of wisdom and writing. His image was upon the stone in chisel work, in faded oils: an ankh in his right hand, the head of a vicious bird. The eyes were sharp, even on the rock canvas. Someone had truly captured his _eye_ for details…

Behind him, he heard the smallest laugh: a child's chuckle accompanied by the tinkling of bells. But when Bookman turned around, there was no one there. Only the darkness around him, the oppressive walls towering above him, the ceiling that felt suddenly too close… The giggle returned, very near to him, next to his ear. So close that Bookman could _feel_ breath, life, heat. The light trembled in his hand slightly.

_Are you afraid, Bookman?_ asked the dark.

"No," Bookman said aloud, to Thoth's glaring eyes. More laughter echoed in the small space, sounding somewhat familiar... "Cease your games, Seeker."

_But don't you want to play with me?_ asked the childish tenor.

"No," Bookman said again, as the dark began to gather, shadows upon shadows, where Thoth turned his head to look at Bookman with eyes the blackest black, a screech unlike anything on earth, his clawed hands reaching through stone and ink towards his _throat_.

_It could be such a fun game_… mused the voice, as a child's cold, rotting hands covered Bookman's eyes.

"No," Bookman said, for a third time, not allowing the illusion to get the better of him. His light did not tremble again, for his hand was steady. "You cannot fool me."

_Cannot, cannot. Cannot see without your eyes; cannot see without looking_ whispered the black, coiling around him like a serpent did before strangling its prey.

"Bookman?" called a voice, chasing the darkness away. It hissed with displeasure as it was banished by lights and sound from two figures moving back through the corridor ahead of him, their lanterns held high. Jahaar was the one who had spoken first, following by asking: "Are you all right?"

"Not letting such a place _get to you_, are you?" asked Seeker, in a terribly teasing tone.

"Of course not," Bookman replied to the both of them, glaring harshly at Seeker, as if daring him to send images to him again. "I was looking at this pictograph. This temple is apparently Thoth's territory."

"That would make sense," said Jahaar, as they began to walk forward again, "as this place is referred to as The Temple of Wisdom and our dearest Thoth _was_ the God of knowledge and scribes."

"And trickery," added Seeker. Bookman glared long and hard at Seeker, but said nothing more. Jahaar, although confused, smiled.

"I knew that it would be interesting having the two of you in the same place," he said, before turning back towards the direction of their purpose. "Now come along; it's not much farther." They continued onwards again with Jahaar in the lead. Bookman took the back again, allowing his lantern to stray rather close to the frayed ends of Seeker's cloak as a rather childish means of evening the score. When they reached their destination, Seeker realized the predicament and had to throw off his shawl and stamp on it to put the flames out. Bookman pretended to be reading the walls and managed to look surprised by the accidental occurrence.

"My apologies," Bookman said. He was unable to keep the triumphant grin out of his voice despite his best intentions. "My _mind_ must have _wandered_." Seeker shook the remains of his burned clothing in disdainful silence.

"This is what I've brought you here for," Jahaar said, interrupting the two of them. The prospect of an interesting discovery was able to calm their hostility momentarily and Bookman resumed a more professional air. Jahaar stood with his arm outstretched, illuminating only a small portion of a large wall. The sandstone tablet was six feet in length on all sides. Certainly the creation of Thoth's temple had not been done with anything less than the most accurate calculations.

"These are not difficult hieroglyphics," Seeker said, after a moment of silence. Bookman agreed, but did not voice it aloud. The symbols before them were quite simple. It told the story of Thoth, who recorded the passing of night and day with the help of Shu, God of the Air, and Nut, Goddess of the Sky. When the day ended, Nut would swallow the Sun and cast the world into Night, where Thoth resided as a deity of the Moon. During the Night, Thoth recorded the passing of Time. What he saw attributed to his knowledge and wisdom, which was highly revered by humans and gods. The main story, however, revolved around, Shu, a deity of the Sun, who felt it was his duty to await the rebirth of Bast, the Goddess of the Dawn. So, when Nut swallowed the Day, Shu turned himself into pillars that kept the sky from falling onto Earth. In doing so, Shu supported Nut to give birth to Day. And so, there was the order of things. One day however, Amon, the God of Wind and deity of Trickery, wanted pull one ver on Thoth. He thought that he would fool the god by keeping the Sun in the sky for the entirety of the Day and Night. Amon gave Shu a flask of fragrant wine, misleading him into thinking that it would make him stronger during the Night while supporting Nut. Shu accepted it, not knowing it was laced with a sleeping draught. With no support to keep her from falling, Nut was unable to swallow the Sun, who remained in the sky for more than its fair share of time. When Thoth found out what Amon had done, he woke Shu with a powerful odor from his wineskin and Order was then restored. As punishment, Thoth ordered that Amon's power be revoked for one complete lunar cycle. It was stored inside a vase that Thoth gave to Shu for safekeeping. From there, the story suddenly stopped.

"This story is not contained in any folklore," Jahaar explained.

"It did not seem familiar," Seeker put in.

"However, this main portion is not what we were curious about," Jahaar said, indicating the main portion of the tablet. Instead, he pointed at the thin border around the hieroglyphics, where two bold lines contained the smallest print Bookman had ever seen in stone.

"Is that…Hebrew?" Seeker asked, kneeling down to study it. Bookman let his eyes follow around the sides of the square, focusing on the symbols that were undoubtedly part of the Hebrew alphabet.

"Interesting that Hebrew would be inside of an Egyptian temple," Bookman said, stepping closer, "and as you can see, it was done years after the original portion of this tablet. Notice that the tool used was angled instead of flat."

"So you can read it, then?" Jahaar asked.

"Of course," Bookman replied. Although the characters were written with a strange sort of slant, the old man could easily discern the figures that he had learned as a youngster in Israel. Bookman pulled out his travel scroll and a quill to take notes; Seeker did the same. Jahaar politely left without another word, leaving them in the silence of the temple.

**pqpq**

"You say…you've translated already?" Jahaar asked, several hours later, when Bookman and Seeker returned to the main antechamber. So focused on revealing their findings, the two of them hadn't even engaged in another confrontation in the darkness of connecting corridors.

"It was not difficult," Bookman said, handing over his parchment, where the Hebrew had been translated into Egyptian Arabic for Jahaar's perusal. Jahaar accepted the paper with serious eyes, his men falling quiet as dark eyes darted back and forth while reading.

"Truly?" Jahaar asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Truly," Bookman replied, "your treasure isn't Egyptian in origin."

"But the story on the tablet tells of Amon's power being revoked and stored in a vase," Jahaar said, "and judging from the ending, Amon never recovered it."

"However, the translated text leads us to believe that this item was placed at a later date," Bookman replied. "The tale is merely reasoning behind the power of the object."

"If it isn't Egyptian, then what is it?" Jahaar inquired as his eyes read the information once more. Over the neat handwriting that read:

_When Thoth is full and Nut is high_

_Shu holds his Pillars to the sky. _

_There, beneath his otherworldly back, _

_Resides what Amon had once lacked. _

_In the Fleeting temple's Eye_

_You'll find a Power that can steal a sigh_

_Tread with care_

_If you dare_

_To find the power of _

_The One True God_

"I advise you not to seek it," Bookman said simply.

"I do as well," Seeker put in, shaking his head.

"Why is that?" Jahaar asked, his dark gaze narrowing at the two of them with distrust.

"The Vatican will be coming after it," Bookman replied, "and they will not take kindly to those who stand in their way."

"What would those Vatican heretics want with this?" Jahaar asked. Bookman and Seeker exchanged a glance, but it was brief.

"You have heard stories of the Christian religion, have you not?" Seeker inquired. "Of the Great Flood or the Flood of Noah as some call it?"

"Of course," Jahaar said, "but I do not believe it."

"Whether you do or you do not, that is irrelevant," Bookman said, "the Catholic Church believes this history and the stories that accompany it."

"You believe it is that God Crystal, then?" Jahaar inquired, doubt coloring his tone. "The mythical substance that is scattered about the world in order to fight the demonic uprising of a hocus?"

"I do," Bookman said, "as I have seen the power of this Crystal first hand."

"I am most certain of it as well," Seeker added, "for I have seen it as well."

"Despite this, I will not cease my search," Jahaar said, taking the parchment in his hands with finality. "I will have this treasure, even if I have to challenge _God_ himself."

**pqpq**

When the sun was in the correct position in the sky the following day, the doors to the temple opened once more. After being inside for so long, Bookman's eyes took a moment to adjust to the brightness of the mid-afternoon. The entire evening had been spent by lantern light, far from Jahaar's erected tent, where the man was most likely pouring over the translation repeatedly. Bookman and Seeker remained mostly silent for the evening, not wanting to discuss the matter with so many listening ears in the echoing space.

"We shouldn't intervene," said Seeker as they began their journey by camel across the dunes once more, using Castilian Spanish as a mask for their conversation.

"We should not," Bookman agreed. Even advising Jahaar not to go after the treasure had been overstepping their usual doctrine of neutrality. However, Bookman did not want to be linked to Jahaar, if he did in fact find Innocence. He and his apprentice had escaped many encounters with the Order, but only just and Bookman was determined to remain elusive from their grasp.

He did not want to be pulled into that scene _prematurely_.

"But perhaps we should accompany him on the journey," Seeker mused aloud. "After all, that _time_ is coming, isn't it? Both sides must be gathering forces…" Bookman did not reply, knowing this fact to be true. The question that plagued him, however, regarded the origin of the Hebrew text inside of the temple. Someone had written that; someone had _hid_ the item of the Wind. Was it for safekeeping, for deterrence? Or…perhaps it was meant for a certain person to find… "Either way, I will go. You have no obligation to, as this is not your sector."

"I may attend," Bookman replied, although the major part of his mind was telling him that the wisest choice at this moment was to get Darpan and flee the country.

"May?" Seeker repeated. Bookman felt his brow furrow slightly as he tried to put his thoughts into correct sequence. Something like doubt had settled over him. That much was obvious by his uncommitted attitude towards the history that could possibly unfold right before his eyes. Before taking upon an apprentice, he had never feared run-ins with the Order. In fact, he had found a sort of ally in Marian and an intellectual acquaintance in the older General, Kevin Yeegar. But with Lavi, Bookman found himself feeling rather shady, darting from town to town, country to country, anything to avoid those black coats and Cross Rose badges. It was something that Bookman knew he should not do, for his actions spoke of protectiveness. He wanted to _protect_ Lavi, his apprentice, who looked up to him with an expression that hungered for more knowledge. The Order would ruin him, turn him into a mindless soldier, a drone, a _pawn_.

Truly, Bookman feared—yes, _feared_—that if the Order were to take Lavi, the old man would one day find the redhead's lifeless body abandoned on the charred remains of a battlefield.

"I don't believe I heard you properly," Seeker said. Bookman looked with determination towards the golden distance. History had to take priority.

He did not have the luxury of any other choice.

"I will be coming along," Bookman said. Seeker grinned, stroking his white beard.

"I knew you would."

**pqpq**

The first thing Bookman noticed upon returning to the camp were the men running towards them with expressions a mix of fear, anger, and relief.

"It is about time you returned!" said one of them, looking pointedly at Bookman and Seeker. The two older men glanced at each other with an air of trepidation. Certainly nothing had happened in _one day_? "Your _children_ have been—"

"I do not want to know," Bookman said, mostly to Seeker, as his animosity returned tenfold.

"Come now, what could be so terrible?" Seeker asked, in a more composed tone of voice.

"See for yourself," said the man, before turning and walking away with long, angry strides towards the nearest tent. Bookman and Seeker dismounted, as did the rest of their group, curious as to what could have happened to cause such a fuss. The flap was pulled back and the two bookmen were permitted inside to find a bare dwelling. In the center was the main wooden support and tied to that were two children with burlap bags over their heads.

"Do you think this was truly necessary?" Bookman asked the man who had brought them there.

"They would have destroyed the camp if we hadn't," he replied in defense. Bookman glared at him with so much intensity that he and the other men fled, leaving the bookmen with their apprentices.

"Doubtful," Seeker muttered to himself, moving forward to remove the sack from Sagira's head. She was gagged, her brown eyes flashing with anger, the kanji for _demon_ painted on her right cheek with ink. But what caught Bookman's attention was the short, uneven crop to her hair. The nearly waist-length locks looked as if they had been hacked off with a dull knife. Bookman's eyes narrowed, not believing that Darpan would do such a thing. But when he pulled the obstruction off Darpan's head, Bookman realized that it must have been in retaliation. Darpan's once-red locks had been turned into a golden-white, as if the color had been stripped completely from his hair. The strands looked dead and stiff.

"What sort of childish rivalry are you harboring?" Bookman asked, his tone dangerous. Seeker removed the gag from Sagira's mouth; Bookman did the same for his successor.

"He started it!" Sagira said in an accusatory manner.

"Did not!" Darpan replied.

"Did too!" Sagira countered, trying to turn her head to glare at Darpan, but with little success in her bound state.

"Did not!" Darpan growled.

"Did too!" Sagira retorted.

"Enough," Bookman said, stopping their prattle. Immediately, they fell silent. "I do not care who started it. You both should have been mature enough to stop before it came to this."

"He's the one being childish! I was defending my honor!" Sagira insisted.

"What _honor_?!" Darpan asked, poison dripping from the words. "You keep hitting me!"

"Good girl! That's the way to keep your skills sharp!" Seeker said, his smile slipping only slightly when Bookman glared at him with a barely contained aura of murderous intent.

"Seeker," Bookman said in warning.

"On my _blind_ side? That's not skill, that's _cowardice_!" Darpan fumed.

"Maybe if you weren't such a _Cyclops_ you could see the attacks coming!" Sagira said.

"Oh _yeah_? When we get untied, I'm not going to go easy on you, just because you're a girl!" Darpan promised.

"Perhaps we should gag them again?" Seeker suggested, as the two children began to bicker and argue again. It was all mounting up to noise and frustration, where Bookman thought he might have to leave to smoke himself into a terminal stage of lung cancer to escape the aggravation. Instead, he decided to take action, since no one else would.

"Darpan," Bookman said, in a voice that made his apprentice flinch as if he had been struck, "you will have to apologize." The redhead looked as if he would rather eat his own foot than do such a thing, but Bookman's gaze left no room for argument. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded mutely as Bookman untied the two of them. Sagira sprung up into a standing position, facing the two of them with a smug expression.

"So apologize," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her bare foot tapped the ground, as if impatient.

"Why do _I _have to apologize again?" Darpan asked, glancing up at Bookman for clarification.

"Because, despite her antagonism, you should show her some respect. By Clan law, when two bookmen occupy the same territory for a given amount of time, the bookman with the highest title holds more value than the other. In simpler terms, if there is a life-threatening situation, it is the duty of the lesser bookman to sacrifice his life in exchange for the life of his superior. In essence, this girl is required to, in an instance of danger, give her life so that _you_, the highest ranking Bookman's apprentice, can _live_."

**pqpq**

Eh, lame not-so-much-a-cliffhanger. But I wanted to get this chapter up for you guys, because I promised weekly updates! Here's to moving into the dorms, getting sick, and then suffering through people yelling at me that I have H1N1…Sorry if it was lame. It's unBETA'd, unproofed, and I'm really, really tired…

More to come later this week/weekend (when I'm feeling better)!

Thanks for all the love, guys!

**Dhampir72**


	35. In Search of the Wind

**Author's Note**: Thanks for all the support on this, guys. Sorry for the late update. Walking pneumonia kicked my ass _hard_.

**Thanks to**: Allen the Musician, Reta McClain, Astarael-7th, winegoldsayuri, Harmony283, Maydn, Holly-Batali, Hiwatari-Angel-15, SilverKleptoFox, NellaXIval, I'm Defective, Lohikäärmesielu, kuzon234ray, 3, AnimeM22 and everyone else for their love and support.

**pqpq**

"…In essence, this girl is required to, in an instance of danger, give her life so that _you_, the highest ranking Bookman's apprentice, can _live_."

After the explanation left Bookman's lips, it went very still. The air was heavy with tension and heat. The old man watched as Darpan's expression of stubbornness left his face as quickly as rushing water through a dam. His eye had widened in surprise, mouth slightly open in unmasked shock. To be told that your enemy was the person who would die for you was a concept that had clearly shaken Darpan's perception of the world, of their Clan. His gaze turned to the girl who had most likely tortured him for the better part of twenty four hours. She was smugly grinning at him, as if she had won some incredible prize or overcome an impossible feat. Despite her cropped hair and graffitied face, Sagira looked positively pleased to have one over on Darpan.

"Yeah, you heard him right," said Sagira, pointing an accusatory finger at Darpan, "if you get yourself into trouble, it's my duty to die for you!" Darpan blinked at her, as if he hadn't heard her correctly. Immediately, the agitation took place of the surprise.

"Then why the hell do you keep trying to _kill_ me if it's your duty to _protect_ me?!" Darpan asked, pointing an accusatory finger back at Sagira. When he made this motion, Bookman could see angry blue bruises on his neck, beneath his short, bleached hair. Apparently it was true that Sagira had been rather rough with him.

"Because," she said, anger replacing her triumph, "because I don't want to be obligated to die for someone who isn't _worth it_!"

After declaring this, the silence came back, heavier and more oppressive than before. Darpan did not reply to her words, his arm falling from its raised position. Instead, it fell beside him and he remained motionless. Sagira's true motives had been realized: her antagonism towards Darpan had been out of pure jealousy and frustration. To look at all sides of the argument, Bookman had to admit that her duty to Darpan was a great responsibility. On the other hand, Sagira should have understood the complexities of the Clan, the unbreakable rules that had to be followed. She should have understood that she did not have a choice. If it came down to it, Darpan's life was more valuable than hers.

"Nothing to say? Good! You shouldn't! Your life shouldn't be worth more than mine! I should have the right to live! I should be able to live even if you were in danger of dying. Why should I give my life for someone as worthless as you?" Sagira asked, her words becoming steely, more poisoned towards the end of her tirade. Bookman looked at Seeker, imploring him to still his apprentice's tongue before he himself did so. However, Seeker did not make to quiet her, his own gaze quite hard. Bookman suddenly realized that the two of them were in the same position as their apprentices. Seeker knew his duty, after all, and if there was a way to prevent Bookman's death, even at the cost of his own life, Seeker was obligated to do so.

That was just the way things were.

"Sagira," said Darpan, his voice quiet, devoid of the anger and annoyance from before. Her mouth closed, eyes turning sharp as Darpan neared her. His hand did not make to strike her, remaining still by his side. Instead, his head lifted slightly so that he could look Sagira right in the eyes. Because of Bookman's position in the room, he could not see Darpan's expression; only those of Sagira and Seeker, who regarded the youth with hostile civility.

"What?" she asked, snapping much like one of the revered cobras that made the region famous. Darpan took a step back and tilted forward from the back, bowing low and respectful. It was a gesture only shown to elders or to those of high importance within the Clan. Darpan had taken it upon himself to resolve the issue by being the better man, even if it meant bowing to his enemy. He was showing it with respect to Sagira's weight of responsibility and possible sacrifice. It was noble, but not overly gracious, which Bookman constituted as proper conduct in the situation at hand.

"I'm sorry," Darpan said, his face still downcast, "and thank you." Sagira's dark eyes widened, anger leaving them as her cheeks flushed at those words.

"Whatever," she replied, crossing her arms and turning around so that her back was to Darpan. Bookman caught the smallest glimpse of tears before she hid them from sight. "I'm still going to hit you next time I see you."

"If you do that, I'll throw you in the nearest well," Darpan answered without hesitation.

"Just try it and see where it gets you, Cyclops," Sagira promised.

"Stop calling me Cyclops!" Darpan growled back. The two children glared at each other as they began a rather loud exchange of insults once more. At least things had returned to a state of semi-normalcy. But Sagira still wouldn't look at Darpan and Bookman's apprentice kept his eyes on the floor as they exchanged their half-hearted threats. Across the room, Bookman could feel Seeker's unwavering stare upon him. He met it for a moment: those black eyes that had held him in a dangerous state of false reality among the dusty stones in Thoth's domain. Too many years had passed between them, with Seeker carrying the weight of obligation on his shoulders and Bookman harboring a secret unease and dislike of the aforementioned man, for anything to be so easily said and accepted as what had transpired between their successors. Instead, it was the smallest of gestures, the slightest dip to Bookman's head that said what could not be expressed with words aloud.

_I appreciate it._

**pqpq**

Later that evening, when Bookman and Darpan had retired to their tent for the evening, that silence returned. One green eye watched as Bookman set up the small hookah that Jahaar had generously lent them for the duration of their stay. It was only when Bookman was lighting the coals in the small tray atop the glass body that Darpan spoke.

"You didn't tell me."

"I did not," Bookman replied. Darpan gave an aggravated, tired sigh, his hand moving over his face in a gesture of exhaustion.

"Isn't there a manual or something I can read so I don't go making a fool of myself?" Darpan asked.

"You'll learn in time," Bookman said, stroking the coals until they were burning nicely.

"Even still, with everything, I don't like her," Darpan told him.

"Nothing says you have to," Bookman replied.

"But now I feel kind of guilty about it," Darpan murmured, drawing his knees to his chest. Bookman felt his gaze as he uncoiled one of the hoses on the hookah.

"Guilty because you feel as if you have to have some sort of attachment to the person who must die in your stead should you be in danger?" Bookman asked, taking a deep inhale from the brass nose. "Foolish of you."

"I guess so," Darpan said.

"Push that feeling aside," Bookman advised on his exhale. "Attachments only serve to alter your state. They affect your judgment, your records, and even your personas. They create biases. If lost or broken, attachment will only serve to injure your perception further. You will be miserable."

"I know," Darpan said with a sigh, "I just wonder if…I could feel absolutely nothing if someone were to die for me." Bookman took a thoughtful inhale from the hookah. It tasted like strawberries and melons, slightly ashy from the coals that were now burning too quickly.

"Eventually, you will be able to," Bookman answered.

"Oh," Darpan said.

And that was all.

**pqpq**

The next morning, Bookman found Darpan sitting in front of a cracked mirror in their tent, making strained faces at his image as he pulled at the deadened strands of his hair.

"I can't believe this…" Darpan grumbled, as Bookman fixed a kettle over their small fire pit.

"How on Earth did that girl get you to hold still long enough to do that?" Bookman inquired, opening several cedar boxes with different kinds of tea.

"I…was drugged…" Darpan said, with such a voice that Bookman could have sworn the corner turned darker in a visual manifestation of his despair. "She…_tricked_ meeee…"

"I take it that in retaliation, you cut her hair while she slept," Bookman replied, scooping out the leaves into a strainer to settle and seep in the boiling water.

"Yeaaaah," Darpan said, a whining tenor still in his voice.

"So what did you do to her that she felt the need to do that to you?" Bookman asked, eyeing the bleached mop of hair upon his apprentice's head.

"I drew that _kanji_ on her face when she took a nap," Darpan answered, a slight glimmer of victory in his eye. "I thought _oni_* was rather appropriate, don't you think?"

[(*_Oni_ means "demon"])

"And why did you draw on her face?" Bookman asked, using a tone similar to that of a parent attempting to get the truth out of a troublesome child.

"She cracked me on the skull with a walking stick," Darpan said, scooting closer to show Bookman a red, swollen lump on the right side of his head beneath those pale locks. "And hit me a few times here." Darpan indicated the bruising along his neck and right shoulder. It was on the side where Darpan could not see, rendering the action to be rather cowardly in Bookman's opinion.

"And she did this why?" Bookman inquired.

"No idea," Darpan replied with a shrug. "I think it had something to do with my hair, though. Never seen someone hate a redhead so much. I think Manas and Ganesa would be rather upset."

"Hmm…" Bookman said as he produced two teacups from their borrowed utensils box. The tea had seeped and was ready to drink, so Bookman poured two equal portions of the sweet-smelling liquid into the chipped mugs.

"What are you _hmmm_ing about?" Darpan asked, once both cups were full. "She's completely crazy. I didn't do anything to her before all of that. I didn't expect her to be so extreme about her methods…"

"I was merely wondering what the two of you were doing that caused the men here to tie you up like they did," Bookman said.

"Well, that's easy," said Darpan in a reasonable voice. "After she found out what I did to her hair, she lost it. At first, it was just her running after me and yelling at the top of her lungs. Then she started to throw things. Then, when she couldn't hit me, she went for fire…"

"You need not say anything further," Bookman said holding up his hand to stop his apprentice.

"Crazy," was all Darpan said, and went back to pulling miserably at his hair.

**pqpq**

Two days later, Jahaar's men returned from their search for Simon. When Bookman joined them in the meeting cabana, they relayed only a small portion of information. Apparently, a hocus named Simon had been seen in the port of Alexandria—the same place where Bookman and Darpan had been only a week prior upon arriving in Egypt—where he was accompanied by men in black robes. From there, he was led onto a vessel in the harbor and was not seen again. The boat had left earlier that morning. One of the men in the party said that the craft was sea bound to Italy, where the men in vestments were intent on taking Simon to Rome.

"They were priests?" Bookman asked, just to clarify. It was verified when they told Bookman that they wore rosary and dressed in button down cassocks the color of sable. Another man was able to identify that they spoke in Italian, confirming that Simon was en route to Italy. Bookman knew that Rome was not far from Vatican City, right along the same western coast. That planted the seeds of questioning and suspicion in Bookman's mind. Did the Pope have some hand in Simon's relocation? Did the Black Order have anything to do with it? If so, what were they planning? Was Marian behind it somehow as well, pulling strings similar to the same manner of his animated corpse, Maria?

"Will you follow him, then?" Jahaar inquired, when the men exited, leaving the two of them alone. The hookah's coals were burning, smelling of cinnamon and almonds.

"I must, as I still have many questions," Bookman replied. "If Simon has been taken to Rome, perhaps he will be executed. The Catholics do not take well to heretics like him, after all."

"So you will not remain here and journey with me in search of the Wind?" asked Jahaar. There was no disappointment in his voice. It was something more along the lines of expected realization.

"I have no reason to stay," Bookman said, tone cautious. "I have fulfilled my part of the bargain and you have fulfilled yours. I cannot lose my only lead on this man, so I am sorry to say that I will be moving on in search of him."

"Yes, that is all well and good," Jahaar said, tilting his head slightly. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips that made Bookman uncomfortable, as if he were back in the dark of Thoth's domain, with childish laughter in his ears... "However, I still require your services." Bookman felt an instinctual rush inside of him to escape from the cabana, his senses on high alert. It wasn't exactly Jahaar's expression, or his words that created this feeling, but instead it was the sight of Darpan appearing through the white flap of the tent. There was something wrong; his single eye was too dark. It set Bookman's stomach tying itself into knots.

"Jahaar," Bookman said, narrowing his eyes at the man across from him as his tone turned a little more dangerous: "What have you done?"

"Not I, Bookman," replied the Arab. Behind Darpan, a silhouette appeared, dark in contrast to the blinding sun behind it. Bookman did not need to see its face to know that it was Seeker. Had it been a trap from the very beginning, or something done out of desperation at the last, final moments?

"Seeker," Bookman said, icy venom creeping into his voice. Darpan's face was a blank slate. The old man could see no life behind his gaze. "Release him."

"I think not," Seeker replied.

"See, Bookman," Jahaar began, leaning back against the many cushions around him on the floor, "I still need your help. I'm sure your hocus won't get too far if you remain here a little longer."

"You tip the scales too greatly, Jahaar," Bookman warned.

"I do no such thing," Jahaar said, "after all, won't you get something in return if I were to find this treasure? Imagine, seeing such a momentous occasion with your own eyes. Is it not everything a bookman wishes for?"

"That is none of my concern," Bookman answered, turning his steely gaze on his colleague. "This is Seeker's territory. I am merely passing through."

"But you misunderstand. You're the only one who can figure out the message from the tablet," Jahaar said.

"Certainly a man of Seeker's intellect could translate it properly for you," Bookman replied coldly. "I ask for no trouble; only to take my apprentice and be on my way."

"It doesn't work like that, Bookman," Jahaar said, civility melting away as he looked at Seeker. It was quick; almost as quick as the glimmer of sunlight on reflective steel that nearly blinded Bookman's eyes. Darpan had drawn Chi's dagger from the sheath at his waist and the smooth, curved blade was held out before him in an offensive position. His body was poised to attack. "You see, _friend_, this boy's volition belongs to me now. Do as you're told and I'll have him released when everything is all said and done."

"Oh, but it doesn't work like that, Jahaar," Bookman said, using Jahaar's same sentence structure as a means of ironic repetition. "You have no power over me."

"Don't I?" asked Jahaar. Bookman watched, with the most stoic disposition characterized by his title, as Darpan's stance changed and the blade lifted higher. It was no longer held in an aggressive manner towards Bookman. Instead, the tip of the dagger was aimed at Darpan's own throat, close to the carotid artery. If punctured, the child would bleed out within moments, resulting in almost instantaneous death. The old man did well to not react to the situation with emotion, despite the surge of protectiveness that grasped hold of him. If anything, these internal reactions allowed him to put more force into his gaze and extra poison into his voice.

"Seeker. This is a conflict of responsibility. Your duties prohibit you from continuing in this manner," Bookman said.

"Perhaps I merely want to see the extent of this boy's strength, Bookman," Seeker answered. A grin appeared, showing teeth beneath Seeker's snowy facial hair. The blade pressed into Darpan's throat, the tip piercing his flesh. A small trickle of blood appeared. A threat.

"Despite this, Seeker, Clan law dictates that you abide by its rules," Bookman said, narrowing his eyes, "and when in the presence of the one known as Bookman, you are to abide by his wishes." The weapon did not move from Darpan's throat, but it did not continue to break the skin.

"This boy's mind is interesting, Bookman," Seeker said, not seeming to heed Bookman's words in the slightest. "It's such a strange map of hallways and black doors. A little disorderly, actually, now that I think about it." The other bookman chuckled. "Maybe too disorderly. It seems as if your apprentice can't find his way to himself again. And that's all he has to do, really. All he has to do is break free. If he can't do that, then what use is he to you?"

"He has not been trained in these practices yet," Bookman replied, mentally concerned for Lavi's well-being. After all, the base persona had encountered some issues when the psyches had been under duress. Certainly an invasive maneuver like Seeker's could be a push in the wrong direction. "Let him be. Your quarrel is with me, is it not?"

"There is no quarrel," Seeker insisted, "I merely want to understand why this wretch is your chosen successor."

"And how convenient for you, Jahaar, that you have the Mentalist himself at your disposal," Bookman said, looking from Seeker to the Arab. It took all he had to not scowl for all he was worth. Jahaar was smart, almost as smart as Seeker. The two of them knew that he could do nothing when the life of his apprentice was in danger. He had too much invested in the boy to lose him so early on in the game. It made him a pawn in a game that he had no control over. "...otherwise, you would have no leverage over me."

"Truly it was a miraculous happenstance," Jahaar said. His hookah bubbled. The coals had burned themselves into ashes.

"I'm sure it was," Bookman replied, standing. He had no choice. "Unfortunately, I am in no position to argue with either of you. I will remain. In return, Seeker is to release my apprentice from his spell."

"Done," Jahaar said quickly. Seeker appeared disappointed, but the dagger in Darpan's hand lowered to his side. In the moments that followed, his apprentice's persona regained consciousness and control, the dissipating darkness returning his eye to natural emerald. He looked puzzled as to how he had suddenly come upon the three adults in the cabana. Even more bemused by the naked weapon in his hand. Darpan blinked, touching his free hand to his neck, where the small wound was bleeding in thin rivulets down his throat. When he touched the wound, it seemed as if he recalled something, his expression turning guarded as he looked from Bookman to Seeker.

"Go back to the tent," Bookman ordered him. Darpan excused himself quietly and all but ran from their presence. When his footsteps were out of Bookman's range of hearing, he regarded the other two men with a level stare. "I do not appreciate what has been done. Due to your impertinence, I may very lose several years worth of research by remaining here. However, I am obligated by your forced hand to act as you wish. I will return shortly with the decoded answer to your question. Excuse me." They both stepped aside to let him leave. Bookman knew he had gotten off easy.

This time.

**pqpq**

"I don't remember anything," Darpan said, that night in their tent. He was sitting before the fire pit with a towel around his shoulders. His hair smelled heavily of strong herbs and henna; it looked like glass in the light. It was the only way that Bookman could think of to restore Darpan's hair back to its normal color from that dead-looking white. When his hand went to touch a stray hair that had fallen on his brow, Bookman slapped his wrist with a rolled up slip of parchment to stop him.

"Don't touch it. You'll dye your hands as well," Bookman said.

"Do you think I was possessed?" Darpan asked, his fingers straying from the wayward hair to instead straighten the straps of his eye patch.

"Seeker caught hold of your mind," Bookman answered, looking up once more when he saw Darpan's hands moving again. However, they were still fiddling with the scrap of silk fabric over his right eye. One of the loops around his ear had come loose and his apprentice made an aggravated face as he tied it back in place.

"I don't even remember seeing him to be honest," Darpan said.

"That is the manner in which Seeker works," Bookman responded, unrolling the parchment in his hands, "it is difficult to see where reality becomes his false illusion." Below his fingers, black ink stared back at him with the words of the riddle.

"It's my fault, isn't it?" Darpan asked, breaking his concentration.

"What is your fault?" Bookman inquired, not bothering to glance up again.

"That we're still here. It's my fault," Darpan said, touching the bandage on his throat. "We were supposed to leave today after those men came back with information about Simon, but we didn't."

"Don't be so egocentric. Our services were required for a longer duration of time," Bookman answered shortly. The fire crackled in the pit beside them. Somewhere in the camp, someone was smoking a melon-raspberry flavored hookah; its smoke wafted in the evening breeze.

"It's because Seeker got a hold over me," Darpan continued, as if Bookman hadn't spoken. "It's because my mind wasn't strong enough to fight him."

"Even with years of training in that field, it would be difficult to resist Seeker. He is a master at his art," Bookman said. He had to tell himself that he was saying it so that Darpan could understand the extent of Seeker's abilities, not so that he could comfort Darpan and ease his guilt slightly.

"So there is a way to fight that sort of power?" Darpan asked.

"Of course there is," Bookman answered, "the mind can overcome almost any obstacle if trained properly."

"Will you teach me?" Darpan asked.

"One day, yes," Bookman said, "but not today." The old man didn't have to see his face to know that his apprentice was disappointed, on the verge of sulking.

"Why not now?" Darpan asked.

"Because there are more important matters to deal with now," Bookman said.

"Like whatever's on that piece of paper you won't let me see?" Darpan replied, scooting closer. Bookman rolled up the parchment before his prying eye could see.

"Go stick your head in a bucket," Bookman told him.

"That's rude," Darpan said, sniffing in offense. "All you had to say was that it wasn't any of my business."

"No, I truly meant for you to stick your head in a bucket," Bookman corrected him. "If that dye stays on too long, it will burn your skin and you will most likely go bald."

"How do I know that this isn't some ploy you came up with so that I'm kept in the dark about everything that's going on?" Darpan asked. When Bookman looked up at him, he saw his apprentice's eye narrowed in suspicion.

"Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn't. When your scalp is on fire and all your hair falls out, never to return for the rest of your life, do not cry to me as I will have no pity on you."

Needless to say, Darpan thrust his head into the nearest bucket of water in terror.

**pqpq**

After Darpan had nearly drowned himself in order to make sure all the dye had been removed from his head so that he didn't "go bald and become miserable," Bookman had allowed Darpan to read the translated text. They then had spent the majority of the night pouring over those few lines and discussing theories. In truth, it was experiences like that night where Bookman felt rather accomplished for making such a choice in selecting his apprentice. Darpan had brought several ideas to the table and had provided stimulating, intellectual debates on some theories. In truth, if not for the situation, it would have been a rather pleasant evening.

"So we're looking for a temple?" Darpan asked, sleepily from his nest of blankets. It was early morning and Bookman was making morning tea. In truth, he was waiting for the sound of the first bell from the main cabana, signaling the wake-up call to the camp. When that bell rang, Jahaar would be awake. Bookman could then pass along some of the information and maybe reach Alexandria in two days time.

"Perhaps. Recall that a temple could be a number of things," Bookman answered.

"Oh, that's right," Darpan said, burrowing under his traveling cloak for a few more moments of sleep as the water boiled. On the table beside him, Bookman looked at the rolled parchment with the words upon them:

_When Thoth is full and Nut is high_

_Shu holds his Pillars to the sky. _

_There, beneath his otherworldly back, _

_Resides what Amon had once lacked. _

_In the Fleeting temple's Eye_

_You'll find a Power that can steal a sigh_

_Tread with care_

_If you dare_

_To find the power of _

_The One True God_

After discussions concerning the poem the previous evening, Bookman and Darpan had come up with a loose interpretation. In reference to Thoth (the Moon) being full and Nut (the Sky) being held up by the pillars of Shu (the Wind), Bookman knew that they were waiting for the night in the middle of the lunar cycle, when the moon was neither waxing nor waning. Following the words, Bookman deduced that there was a place beneath where Shu supported Nut, which housed the object that Amon (the Wind) once lacked: his Power that could "steal a sigh", which was a reference possibly to the Breath of Life, otherwise known as the Wind. The most likely place to contain the object would be a temple, but it could have been an obelisk, a tomb, or even a pyramid, as all of these locations could be considered "temples" in their own rights. The only question remained was _where_ the place was located.

"So we still don't know what it is we're looking for or where it is," Darpan said, once the tea was finished. His dark auburn strands of hair poked out from beneath his hiding place when Bookman set the cup nest to the bundle he was using as a pillow. Although it wasn't quite the same color as it had been originally, it was much better than the sickly white it had been before. A return to normalcy, almost, that Bookman found to be rather calming. It was strange to see his apprentice without that usually vibrant mop of hair.

"Exactly," Bookman replied.

"But it's Innocence, right?" Darpan asked, yawning widely as he sat up.

"It is most _likely_ to be Innocence," Bookman corrected him.

"Well, this is all speculative and stuff. Jahaar's gonna love it," Darpan replied, blowing at the smoke emitting from his hot tea.

"Everything within the poem is important," Bookman said. "There are no unnecessary words. The only line that remains is 'In the Fleeting temple's Eye'."

"Maybe it moves," Darpan suggested, shrugging sleepily.

"I said _fleeting_ not _fleeing_," Bookman replied, whacking Darpan upside the head with the rolled up parchment.

"Maybe it vanishes," Darpan amended, flattening the hair that had been disturbed by Bookman's abuse.

"Vanishes?" Bookman repeated, feeling the brightness of an epiphany emerging.

"I was just kidding," said his apprentice. He took a sip from his tea and made a face. "This is really bitter."

"A vanishing temple," Bookman mused aloud.

"I really was just kidding," Darpan said.

"It would make sense," Bookman continued, as if the redhead hadn't spoken. "If the temple only appears during a certain segment of the lunar cycle, then it is possible that on the remaining days, it simply does not exist."

"Whaaaaat?" Darpan asked. Somewhere within the camp, the bell rang. Jahaar was awake. Bookman rolled up the parchment and put it inside his cloak pocket. Then he pulled out a satchel containing some bread and breakfast meat, handing it to Darpan.

"Make yourself something to eat. I will collect you shortly," Bookman said, rising and making his way towards the exit of their tent. He was just outside when Darpan stuck his head out of the flap to regard him:

"What are you talking about? Where are you going? Seriously, I was just kidding!"

**pqpq**

"Folklore about a vanishing tomb? Truly, Bookman, you must jest."

"I assure you, I do not _jest_," Bookman insisted, as he was not one to find anything hilarious or entertaining. The thought of himself laughing actually gave him nightmares. "Have you ever heard any myths or legends about such a place?" In front of him, Jahaar and Seeker sat before the hookah, already burning and bubbling at the early hour of the morning. Jahaar seemed much more genial than the last time they met. Perhaps a step closer to achieving his ultimate goal had placated him somewhat. Seeker, on the other hand, was the opposite. If anything, he seemed more hostile than ever. It was a silent animosity, but still very much present in their meeting.

"This is ridiculous," Seeker said, continuing from his previous comment. "You can't possibly believe that a tomb can disappear and reappear at will."

"The Temple of Wisdom could only be opened when the sun was in a certain position in the sky," Bookman replied, "so would a tomb that only revealed itself on the night of a full moon be so farfetched?"

"Yes, Bookman, it is. You seem to forget that Thoth's temple actually existed. It was a concrete site that was tied to the sun, but not completely relying upon it for manifestation," Seeker answered. His tone was smug. Bookman had the urge to push _him_ into the nearest well, much like Darpan had promised Sagira earlier. The old man entertained that thought for a second, wondering how gratifying it would feel to do such a thing.

"Hmm, actually, Seeker, I do believe that I've heard of this place before," Jahaar said, bringing Bookman out of his thoughts with a near jolt of surprise. The two bookmen turned to look at him, both with similar feelings of disbelief behind their normally stoic eyes.

"You have?" Seeker asked.

"I do believe so," Jahaar said again, cupping his own chin in thought. "As you know, Bookman, I was born in Tazirbu, within the Muhafazat of Ramlat Rabyanah. The Great Sand Sea was my home, and even there, I heard the stories from travelers concerning a mysterious place that could only be seen at night. I thought it was a ghost story meant to frighten children. But I never believed the place to actually exist."

"Because it most likely does not exist," Seeker said, clinging to his preconceived notions of reality. Bookman did recall that the other man was never much for mythology. Despite a collection of unreal fables, all of these stories were based upon truths, no matter how small they might have been. That just proved that Seeker's narrow mind could never truly comprehend the mysteries of the past to their fullest extent.

"If there have been rumors of it, then the theory is not entirely worthless," Bookman replied. Seeker glared at him irritably and reached into his inner shawl to search for his pipe.

"I will converse among my men and attempt to determine a certain area where this temple may be located," Jahaar said, taking an inhale from his hookah. He let out a breath and regarded Bookman: "I'm sure that many of them, from Libya and other parts of the country, have to have heard about it before. I will interview them myself today and return to you at dusk with the information. After all, the full moon is only a few nights away now, isn't it?" Jahaar's smile had more of an edge to it. Bookman had seen that same expression upon the war-crazed generals in battle, high with a feeling of extreme power.

Needless to say, it was rather unsettling.

"Upon obtaining this information, I do expect that you will no longer be in need of my services and that I will be permitted to leave with my apprentice by dawn," Bookman said.

"You are mistaken, Bookman," Jahaar said. "After all, what if this information is useless to me? I am back to square one. And where would I be without your intellect to help aid me? No, you and your successor will remain here. You will both journey with me in search of this treasure. You know the consequences of your actions should you decide to resist."

"I understand," Bookman replied. Truly, he understood why relationships were so prohibited by the Clan. It was because of people like Jahaar, who believed that they could bend people to his will, use them, exploit them. It was the first time that Bookman doubted his decision to keep ties with the man before him. However, he would never admit this faulty judgment aloud.

Bookman had a feeling that the Chancellor would be sickeningly pleased otherwise.

**pqpq**

"So, we're trekking through the desert, _why_ again?" Darpan asked.

It was dawn of the following day, the sun just peeking out over the expanse of smooth, golden dunes. A caravan of nearly fifteen people had joined Jahaar on his quest, including the two bookmen and their apprentices. They were on camels, making their way East towards where several men had asserted to be the direction of the mythical temple. It was early, so many of the group was silently urging their transport on. Someone up towards the front was drinking chai from a travel flask; it smelled sweet and good in the morning air.

"I explained this to you. Do not make me waste my breath again," Bookman replied.

"Okay, then let me ask this: why are we trekking through the desert and I got stuck with _this thing_?" Darpan asked. He wasn't referring to the camel he was riding, but rather nodding over his shoulder to indicate the girl sitting in the saddle behind him.

"Did you just call me a _thing_?!" Sagira shouted.

"That's the best word I could think of at the moment," Darpan replied, touching his chin in thought. "Actually, I think it suits you rather well."

"Watch yourself, Cyclops. I'll make you regret it," Sagira threatened, pulling at his hair.

"Don't be such a wench! Let go!" Darpan shouted, his body arching backwards with the force of her tug.

"Some things never change…" Bookman mused aloud, watching as the two of them fought, unable to move very much due to the confining area that made up the camel's back.

"No, I don't suppose they do," Seeker said from beside him, sitting with an intolerable air of self-possessed importance. Bookman did not warrant that with a reply. Things continued on in a similar manner for the remainder of the day, where the hot sun beat down on them relentlessly, much in the same way that Darpan and Sagira unceasingly attacked one another with no breaks or gaps in stride. It was only in the evening, beneath the moon and their erected tents that things cooled down. Sagira became calm and Darpan, although edgy, remained out of her way and close to Bookman's elbow. The old man wondered if it had anything to do with wanting to not near where Seeker or Jahaar sat together with the girl, speaking in rather conspiring whispers among one another.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Darpan asked, in quiet Nepali. No one was listening, or at least it did not seem so, as their eyes were on their own tasks. However, Bookman was glad for the privacy, unsure whether or not the surrounding ears were friend or foe.

"I do not know," Bookman answered.

"After this, we can leave, can't we?" he inquired.

"Yes," Bookman said. Beyond the crackling of the fire placed in the center of their camp, Bookman saw someone moving in the shadows just beyond the light's reach. There were three silhouettes, all tall and broad shouldered, allowing Bookman to make the assumption that all were male. They did not make to attack or to sneak upon those in the camp. Merely, their figures walked towards the light, revealing their faces in a warm orange illumination. The two men who stood on either side of the man in the middle wore matching clothes: khaki jackets and hoods with large, black backpacks that looked more like equipment than travel gear. Their boots were heavy, industrial strength, and a Cross Rose shimmered on both their breasts. However, that was not the person whom Bookman concerned himself with the most. The man standing in between these two was the one who captured his attention. Clad in black from head to toe, with only the slightest of golden accents about the cuffs and collar, the man's aged eyes moved from one portion of their group to the other. Among the sea of surprised faces, they landed upon Bookman. The length of his white mustache almost prevented Bookman from seeing his smile, but even still, it was apparent in his genial gaze.

"It's been a long time, Bookman," he said, sweeping past a bemused Jahaar and a nonplussed Seeker to stand before Bookman. The old man rose in greeting and, in a rather European manner, shook the proffered hand. "I'm glad to see that you are well, old friend."

"It has been a long time, hasn't it?" Bookman acquiesced. "Exorcist General Kevin Yeegar."

**pqpq**

I feel so fail guys. I was so totally ready to write a chapter a week…then I got that walking pneumonia. I've spent the last two weeks trying to catch up. So I'm going to do better for you guys! More updates in the future! Everyone cheer for happiness now!

And yes, I'm so excited about Yeegar. He was such a cool guy, who didn't get quite enough screen time, so I'm giving him his own little bit of glory in the next few chapters. Hurrah for cool old guys who cook good food!

Anyway, I'm ranting now. Two midterms tomorrow, and then another one the following day. I've got to study guys, but I'll be sure to have an update for you ASAP, so long as you show me love (or cookies).

Lurves muchly,

**Dhampir72**


	36. Transient Guests

**Author's Note**: Gonna keep this short and sweet: my apologies for not updating in like...6 months. I had some bad health issues, then my family had bad health issues, on top of a very desperate financial situation. Needless to say, since I was going to school and working two jobs while taking care of the family, I was not only very busy, but sick too. With the summer within my grasp, I plan to write as much as I can, because I've missed this story very much.

**Thank you: **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed in the past and during my months of inactivity. I'm so happy that you've all enjoyed it! Also, a special thank you to **the-fish92**, who pimped my story something awesome at the end of a chapter of _It Must Be Nice to Be The Sun_. Although I haven't gotten around to reading the fic in its entirety yet, it looks really good, so go check it out!

**Revisions**: For those of you interested, I rewrote and reposted the first 10 chapters of this story. They've got much better grammar/spelling and some more details, but nothing that changes the story drastically, so you don't have to worry about re-reading if you don't want to. Eventually all of the past chapters will be revised!

**pqpq**

It had been a long time since Bookman had seen Kevin Yeegar.

When they had last met, the two of them had shared a drink at a cramped tavern in Germany called Tucherbrustberl. It had been a brief meeting, wherein Kevin had informed Bookman of his elevated status within the Order, earning him more gray hair and an even more burdensome responsibility to humankind. Six years ago, Yeegar's eyes had been heavy with that weight; by the firelight in that current moment, Bookman could see that the crow's feet and ancient laugh lines were deeper than ever. The man who had been a mere schoolteacher with only the intention of relating important information to young minds was not meant to wear that crest. He had seen too much sorrow. Bookman knew that the kind-hearted Kevin Yeegar did not deserve such a life.

"How have the years been treating you, Bookman?" Yeegar asked, when their clasped hands released one another and fell to their sides again.

"Certainly you can tell by using those eyes of yours, "Bookman said. Beyond the General's elbow, Bookman could see Seeker whispering ardently to Jahaar. Beside the other Bookman, Sagira's eyes were like two black, abysmal wells in the firelight.

"You haven't changed, it seems,"Yeegar said, his tone teased with amusement.

"And neither have you," Bookman replied, gesturing for the other man to have a seat before their erected tent. He did so, while the men in khaki regarded their surroundings with a look of unease. Bookman saw their hands tighten on the straps of their packs when some of Jahaar's men began openly sharpening their machetes in an imposing manner. However, no one made to come over to them, leaving Bookman and his guests to semi-privacy.

"Strange group you're affiliated with," Yeegar ventured in conversational German

"Not by choice, I assure you," Bookman replied easily, despite not using the language since his last rendezvous with the man across from him. Kevin's white brows knitted together, his sharp gaze moving from Bookman's face to the main cabana to their right, where Jahaar and Seeker were still in heated discussion, their attention focused on Bookman's small group.

"Are you in danger?" Yeegar asked, concern softening his consonants.

"Not I," Bookman answered, looking down at his apprentice. Darpan, not understanding the language, appeared confused as to why everyone in the group had suddenly turned their attention to him. Across from him, Yeegar's expression tightened. He, much like Bookman, had issues with people who targeted children with violence.

"I could protect him," Yeegar said quietly, his tone earnest. He truly hadn't changed. Yeegar did not even understand the situation, and yet he was more than willing to put himself out there to protect a boy he scarcely knew. That kind heart of his was going to do him in one day.

"They would kill you," Bookman replied, making sure that his voice did not carry. Even in German, it was possible that someone nearby could understand and would be able to relate the information to Jahaar. "And him."

"What do they want from you?" Yeegar asked.

"They require my services," Bookman said.

"For what purpose?" he inquired.

"For the same purpose I deduce you yourself have come to this place," Bookman replied. Yeegar's gloved hand touched the golden crest on his cloak in realization.

"Innocence?

"Indeed."

"But it is impossible for a non-compatible host to utilize the power of Innocence. The effects could be disastrous"

"I am well aware.

"What could he possibly want?"

"What do you think?"

A stony silence fell over their conversation. Many men had destroyed themselves in the past _seeking_ the power of God while others struggled onwards fighting to_ protect_ the power of God.

_Exorcists are...the saddest creatures aren't they?_ Bookman mused, looking at the man across from him. _Continuously in the middle of a battle they will never win... _Humans. Demons. Some humans were as malicious as demons, blurring that line between the black and white. Powerless, the Exorcists were left in that stage of gray permanently. _Aren't you there, Yeegar?_

"It would most likely be the best option for you to leave while you are still able," Bookman said. If there was one thing he could do at that moment, it was preventing Yeegar from becoming involved in yet another battle that should not have been his to fight. Yeegar's face was soft, lined with sadness. In contrast, across the camp, Jahaar was reminiscent of a feral animal and his body language indicated that Seeker had explained to him the circumstances in which Yeegar had come into their company. With the knowledge that the General was there to collect Jahaar's beloved treasure, the Arab looked positively murderous that someone would stand in his way. "Our paths will undoubtedly cross again."

"When that time comes, I will aid you in any way I can," Yeegar said, standing up; the two Finders beside him did the same, their faces revealing the relief they felt with the impending departure from such a hostile environment. Kevin put forth his hand again for Bookman to shake. In his palm was a small, black orb that Bookman allowed to slide into the sleeve of his _kuzhe_. Yeegar released his hand and said in English: "It was good to see you again, Bookman."

"And yourself, General," Bookman responded; Yeegar's mustache lifted lightly in a smile at the cordial tone. Beside him, Bookman was acutely aware that Darpan had drawn closer. It was no mystery why, as Jahaar was making his way towards them, flanked by the largest members of his entourage. Seeker lurked behind them as a silent threat.

"Bookman," Jahaar said, his voice only a pretense of geniality, "Will you not introduce me to your acquaintance?

Yeegar looked at Bookman out of the corner of his eye in a cautious manner.

"My guest is truly none of your concern, Jahaar," Bookman responded easily, "But since you've come in all your splendor, perhaps it would be the considerate choice to introduce yourself instead." Jahaar's fake smile flickered for a moment, but did not fall from his lips entirely.

"Of course. How dreadfully rude of me," he said sharply and Seeker smirked from beyond their gathered circle. Behind him, Bookman heard Darpan utter a muted, choked sound, allowing the old man to ascertain precisely the reason why Seeker appeared so pleased. As Jahaar introduced himself to Yeegar, Bookman glared at Seeker; the other man's hard eyes met his with unwavering intensity. Apparently too many years of bitterness had built up to the point where the lines between duty and personal revenge had become non-existent. If Bookman and Darpan were to die there, would anyone even know there had been foul play? Pondering these thoughts, Bookman moved his hands slowly beneath his cloak so that they were behind him, fingers pointing outwards. He did well not to breathe a visible sigh of relief when he felt the heavy weight of Chi's dagger placed in his waiting palms by his apprentice's shaking hands.

"_Ta ma de...*" _Darpan muttered weakly, his presence moving away from Bookman and towards the tent. He heard the flap lift and then close, then nothing at all from the inside.

(*Lit. "Fuck me")

"What brings you to this region?" Jahaar was inquiring pointedly when Bookman turned his attention back to the conversation at hand, after safely securing the dagger onto his belt. Yeegar's focus was on the Arab, but his two Finders had been watching the scene between the Bookmen with confusion. The younger of the two glanced concernedly at the silent tent behind Bookman, but did not make a sound.

"Business," Yeegar replied professionally, "and if you will excuse me, I will now be on my way."

"Of course," Jahaar said, and stepped aside for the General and his men to pass. "Be careful out there, good man. The desert at night is not the place for the _inexperienced_." Yeegar only smiled at the thinly masked threat before leaving. Bookman was certain that the old _gensui_ did not miss the two men who followed behind his black carriage as it sped off into the dark, sandy dunes.

"He will not interfere," Jahaar said. His men dispersed back to the places they had held previously. The Arab did the same, returning with Seeker to the campfire in the center of their temporary establishment. Sagira was nowhere in sight.

**pqpq**

The moment that everyone had gone their separate ways, Bookman ducked into the tent. Darpan was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, staring blankly at nothing. Even when Bookman stepped in front of him, his apprentice gave no reaction. This lasted for a few unblinking moments until consciousness returned to Darpan's green eye and he looked around, confused. Seeker must have had quite the grip on his mind, judging from the disconcerted expression on his young face. It turned to chagrined realization within seconds.

"He got me again, didn't he?" Darpan asked with a sheepish tone.

"Unfortunately so," Bookman replied, handing Darpan's dagger back to him, "but that is to be expected. Even with the most advanced of training, it is difficult to resist Seeker's abilities."

"I didn't try to kill anyone, did I?" Darpan inquired, holding the dagger in his upturned palms. He looked as if he did not want to have it on his person if he had attempted homicide.

"No. You disarmed yourself before then," Bookman said. Outside, he could hear the conversations among the men about the traveler; about Jahaar's invaluable treasure they would have within days…

"That's good. I didn't want to hurt anyone," Darpan said with a relieved sigh as he strapped the weapon back onto his belt, "but what are we going to do now? Jahaar didn't look too happy back there..."

"That he did not," Bookman agreed, sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion. Instead of smoking from the hookah in their tent, Bookman lit a cigarette and took in a long drag while thinking about the situation and its ever-increasing complexity. Inside his sleeve, the black ball was heavy, pressing Bookman to remove it and hold the orb up in observation. The center of the circle opened in the form of a diamond, revealing a single, searching eye. It blinked at Bookman, before two wings shot out from side panels and began flapping.

"What..." Darpan said, not asked, as he looked at the creature. "Is that a bat?

"It's a golem," Bookman replied.

"A whatsit?" Darpan asked.

"A golem," Bookman repeated, allowing the device to hover in the air between them. "It is a communication system that the Black Order designed to keep their agents in contact with the main branch headquarters."

"So that guy really was from the Black Order," Darpan said, his tone turning confused when he asked: "Speaking of which, aren't we supposed to be hiding from them?"

"We are not hiding," Bookman replied.

"Avoiding," Darpan amended.

"That man can be trusted," said Bookman. Darpan seemed to accept that answer, perhaps still missing parts of Lavi's hazy memory from the incident back in Greece with Cross and his abusive habits. Taking another drag from his cigarette, Bookman thought, staring at the device with contemplation. Perhaps taking Yeegar up on his offer would not be such a bad idea. Bookman was getting a bad feeling about their traveling group and it was his duty as Darpan's mentor to keep him out of the way of danger.

"Yeegar," Bookman said aloud. The golem's eye turned red and it made a few clicking, processing noises before a voice came through the speaker.

"Bookman," came the response.

"Stop your carriage," Bookman said in German, "you'll be taking on some precious cargo."

"I'll set the tracking device on the golem now," Yeegar said quietly, "it will bring you right to us."

"I will be staying," Bookman informed him.

"Staying," Yeegar repeated, "but why?"

"There is something that must be done first," Bookman said, "and I do not want my apprentice to become involved in whatever aftermath there may be." Yeegar was silent for a long few moments before he replied.

"Understood. We will wait for the boy."

**pqpq**

The next day dawned bright and scorching over a sea of golden sand. After an early breakfast, the caravan set out once more in a line that stretched for so long that Bookman could not distinguish where it began and ended. Although the original party had been only fifteen or so people, more of Jahaar's men appeared in the night, silently adding to the weight of a near inescapable situation. In front of him, Seeker and Sagira rode on their camels side-by-side, like a barrier between Bookman and the rest of the hostile group; or maybe as a guard to keep him in check. Every now and then, Bookman noticed the girl glancing back at him, but her expression was unreadable. Seeker did not look back once.

"Your little brat's been quiet all morning," remarked one of Jahaar's men behind Bookman.

"He had a bit of a rough encounter last night," Bookman answered, lying easily. In the saddle in front of him, Bookman had a small bundle wrapped in several blankets. It leaned against him much like a tired child would have. However, there was nothing inside of it aside from a few floor cushions that Bookman had molded into a more human like shape the night prior. It would not be able to fool anyone for very long, but it would do the trick for that moment. When the truth was discovered, Bookman would be in serious trouble, but Darpan would be safely with Yeegar and out of Seeker's persistent grasp.

That night, however, Bookman found himself to be in luck. He remained on his side of the camp, out in the open by the small fire so that he could be observed. If anyone asked, he told them that the child was ill and in bed. Seeker seemed to be pleased by this, as if his meddling had worn Bookman's apprentice down to the point where he was too weak to walk. It only furthered his belief that the boy was an inadequate choice for the position. Sagira was the only one who seemed different. Her mood was subdued, cautious, and Bookman caught her looking more than once at the dimly lit tent behind him that night. When their eyes met from across the camp, Bookman was sure that, in a sudden passing second of clarity, she knew what was really happening. But if she did, she said nothing, and remained dutifully by Seeker's side.

**pqpq**

In the morning, Jahaar called Bookman into his tent. He was smoking from a hookah and lounging on his silk cushions like a king before his court. His small serpent had wrapped itself around his hand, clinging to him like a morbid piece of royal jewelry. A few of his loyal servants were in his company; Seeker sat on his direct right, the highest honor. Sagira, however, was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, she had been neglected from the group of men that sat before him. Whether because of her age or her gender, Bookman was unsure, but it made him slightly suspicious that she was not present. The feeling of impending discovery increased exponentially.

"Tonight is the night of the full moon," Jahaar began, in a tone that reminded Bookman of the Chancellor at the beginning (and all the way through the entirety of) one of his long-winded and boring speeches. "According to our research, we are within fifteen yards of where this structure is to appear. You will accompany us inside to decipher any additional scriptures. Seeker will also be joining our party, to make sure that you keep your end of the bargain.

"I will be sure to be on my best behavior," Bookman said scathingly, comment directed at the white-bearded man on Jahaar's right. He merely chuckled, unmoved by Bookman's act of defiance. The old man thought that he held all the cards in his hand; Bookman wanted to smirk, imagining the expression he would make upon realize he wasn't playing with a _full deck_.

"I'll make sure of it," Seeker replied.

"Do your very best," Bookman retorted, knowing the banter would aggravate him.

"We will remain here today and wait for nightfall," Jahaar said, ignoring them as he spoke directly to Bookman. "We will fetch you and your apprentice at dusk."

"Very well," Bookman said, standing up. When he left, he did not turn his back to the men in the room, especially Seeker, whom he was the most aware of. Sometimes, when walking in such a manner, it proved beneficial to prevent any sudden attacks from one's enemies who would otherwise be facing his back. But other times, it served as embarrassing segue. When Bookman was just making to turn around upon emerging from the tent, he ran directly into a smaller body, which fell backwards from the contact. He was going to apologize, but then he realized who it was, and instead looked down at the pair of dark, angry eyes that glared into his from the ground without uttering a word.

"You didn't have to push me down, you know," Sagira said.

"My apologies," Bookman replied to her, though he did not mean it. In his eyes, Sagira was just as ridiculous as her master, whom he harbored a great dislike for.

"Are you going to help me up or just leave a lady in a state like this?" she asked. Bookman once again had no choice in the situation, and begrudgingly held out a hand to help the girl up. She latched onto him, her hand hot and covered in grains of sand, not releasing him upon standing. Her eyes looked into his without blinking, almost as if she were searching for information behind Bookman's own gaze. Like a smaller version of Seeker himself. "I was just looking for Darpan.

"Is that so," Bookman said, trying to release his hand from her grip, but she held on tightly. He had a creeping feeling curling around his lower spine. _She knows_.

"I looked in the tent, but he didn't seem to be there," Sagira continued, still staring. Bookman did not keep eye contact with her for too long. Able to use hypnosis himself, he knew all the tricks. But she being Seeker's ward, he did not want to take any unnecessary chances. There were secrets of the mind that even Bookman could not begin to fathom; that was Seeker's playground.

"He must be out getting water," Bookman offered.

"I didn't see him by the trough," Sagira said.

"Then perhaps he's off exploring," was his only reply. His hand did not shake in her grasp and eventually, she let him go.

"I doubt it," Sagira said, and began walking away, "since he's been gone for two nights." Bookman followed her, leaving behind the main tent in lieu of his own. Seeker's apprentice stood outside for a moment, bending down to fiddle with her sandal as a few of Jahaar's men passed by. When they were gone, Bookman watched as she made her way into his tent stealthily, the flap fluttering shut behind her. Not knowing what her game was, Bookman took the same path through the sand and entered into the cool, shady retreat of his cabana. Sagira was sitting on the cushions that he had used to fake Darpan's presence the previous day.

"Where did he go?" Sagira asked. Her tone wasn't menacing or rude like it had been so many times before. It was softer, more curious. When Bookman looked at her eyes, they seemed darker, almost sadder.

"It is none of your concern," Bookman said, pulling the flap down on the tent. But then he stopped, recalling the meeting he had just attended. Seeker's attitude and body language had been consistent with what he had observed in the past. "Seeker doesn't know."

"I didn't tell him," Sagira replied, crossing her arms.

"Why not?" Bookman asked. She looked up at him through crooked bangs that had been hacked by Darpan only a week prior.

"Because my master is wrong," Sagira said. Hearing her say it like that made Bookman sit down, curious at the girl. Perhaps he had found an ally within the hostile group.

"And how did you come to this conclusion?" Bookman asked, lighting a cigarette. Although he agreed with her statement, he had to hear her expand upon it more. Then, and only then, would he be able to judge if the girl meant what she said.

"After I heard him agree to a contract with Jahaar," Sagira explained. "When we first came across his group, we entered merely to observe his movements, as he's been very active in the northern regions recently in terms of politics. We suspected him of selling arms between tribes in Algeria, which has spurred wars between them. Because of that, there's been more activity from the Europeans, like King Leopold II. In any case, Seeker wanted to make a log investigating him, as he seems to have been instrumental to these developments. It was purely that at first. Then we came across you."

Bookman remained silent at her accusation, puffing on his cigarette with a stoic expression, waiting for her to continue.

"For someone who preaches about remaining impartial, he's a real hypocrite," Sagira said, looking at him, "the both of you are."

"You know what they say about people who dwell in glass houses," Bookman replied.

"I'll throw stones if I want to. The both of you are ridiculous," she answered. Bookman raised an eyebrow at her, unamused by her insinuation.

"And about this contract," Bookman said, to steer her in the right direction again. Between Sagira and his own apprentice, Bookman was convinced that the younger generation could never focus on something for more than five seconds without being distracted.

"Jahaar and Seeker came to a concord," Sagira replied seriously: "Seeker said that he would keep you in Jahaar's hold by controlling Darpan...in exchange for your quiet termination." Bookman listened and the words processed in his mind correctly, but even though he understood, the old man truly could not believe it. Despite their differences and life-long animosity, Bookman could not imagine Seeker wanting to kill him. Perhaps it was some elaborate set-up to force Bookman into believing such a tale, only to find himself deeper entangled in a trap he had been trying to avoid.

"Believe me or not, I don't care," Sagira said, standing up. She brushed off her desert trousers with angry flicks of her wrists. "I just wanted to let you know."

"Considerate," Bookman replied, flicking his ashes to show he was unmoved by her speech. With nothing else to say, the girl made for the exit, pausing before the flap. She did not turn around, just stood there with her back to Bookman and the messily cropped hair against her shoulders.

"If I ever see Darpan again, I promise I won't hurt him. It's my duty, after all, to protect him, isn't it?" she said rhetorically, voice soft and thoughtful. Convincing, but Bookman still held his suspicions. Anyone affiliated with the Clan had to be a good actor by nature.

"You did not hold this value before," Bookman said.

"That was before I found out," Sagira replied.

Thinking about the journey, Bookman analyzed every memory he had collected of Sagira. The first one was of she and Darpan bickering, but not too roughly, pulling at hair and throwing a few insults. Then there were the scattered images where she flitted in the background, watching with an intense stare but nothing more. The day prior came to mind, where she and Seeker had been riding in front of them and her looks kept coming back to him, searching. If Bookman focused enough, perhaps those dark eyes of hers had been trying to tell him something without words. But because Bookman did not understand, Sagira engaged as she had originally and although she was always by Seeker's side, she continuously kept Bookman and Darpan under her surveillance, almost as if she were concerned.

"In any case, I must act like a Bookman here, since it seems my master is in no condition to do so," Sagira said, "so, I will try to help you when the time comes."

And with a slant of sunlight and a warm breeze, she was gone.

**pqpq**

Jahaar was furious.

This in itself would have been hilarious, if not for the dire situation. After all, when people became enraged, they tended to turn an array of different colors while making entertaining faces. In fact, Bookman liked to consider it one of his fondest past times to see exactly how infuriated he could make people become. However, with Jahaar, the rage became less amusing and more dangerous, which was why Bookman found his hands tied behind his back with coarse rope and the tip of a machete blade pressed against his throat.

"You thought that you could trick me?" Jahaar asked, threatening, but not able to press the steel further into Bookman's neck to draw blood. After all, Bookman was still needed, so Jahaar could not so easily kill him. Not yet, anyway. And when that time came, they would not be prepared for what would be unleashed.

Bookmen, although Watchers, were also skilled fighters.

"I did nothing of the sort," Bookman replied nonchalantly.

When the sun set that night, a group of guards had come to collect Bookman from his tent. Upon arriving, they found that Bookman was the only one they were going to receive, as the apprentice in question was currently elsewhere.

"Do not lie to me, Bookman. I am not a patient man," Jahaar said.

"I am not lying to you, Jahaar," Bookman replied. "I used no trickery. I merely took a useless figure out of the equation. I myself stayed behind to honor the concord we established, by which my apprentice had no part in, and therefore, no responsibility to remain here."

"I am warning you, Bookman. I am a very dangerous man," Jahaar threatened. Although his eyes were a little bit wilder and expression a bit more fanatical, Bookman experienced no semblance of fear. Jahaar was not even close to his level.

Nowhere near him.

"I am a very dangerous man myself," Bookman answered. The long stare that followed ended in Jahaar's retreat and his machete was sheathed onto his belt.

"Tonight, we will find these ruins," Jahaar said, looking down at Bookman with almost an air of indifference. "When I have my treasure, I'll let you leave with yours: your life."

"Kind of you," Bookman replied.

Jahaar wheeled around on his heel, hand raised above his head, as if he were planning on striking Bookman. But the old man did not waver or flinch from Jahaar, who turned back around in disappointment at the lack of reaction.

It was going to be a long night.

**pqpq**

The dunes were blue in the night, looking more like an ocean than a sea of sand. They rolled full and triangular, over and over one another, all the way into the indigo distance. Their regularity was interrupted by one thing that could be seen from atop a sandy crest: a structure that stood directly between two sand valleys. Its tall pillars supported a sloped roof that resembled the great pyramids at Giza. Below it, the cornices were elaborately decorated with familiar pictographs and hieroglyphics: the sun, the moon, the wind, the sky...the characters went on and on around the top portion, down the main pillars that stretched six by six on all sides. Perfectly square, it was a huge building that sat with only one protruding feature: a plateau of stairs that jutted out from the structure almost like a tongue, beckoning them inside the stomach of a hungry lion. It seemed to whisper with evanescence.

"This wasn't here earlier today when I went out on patrol," whispered a man behind Bookman to his companion on a nearby camel. "I would have seen something like _that_ among the dunes, that I would have." Others spoke quietly among one another in hushed voices of awe before the temple that had appeared out of the night. Beside Bookman, he heard a small exclamation emit from Sagira's lips, unnoticed by the others.

"We will enter now," Jahaar said. The men got off their camels and split into two groups: those that would remain outside and those that would travel into the interior. Bookman was brought, hands bound, to the front by Manesh, before left in the secure care of Seeker. The other man looked as if he was truly enjoying the manner in which Bookman was treated and did nothing to stop the situation. Sagira stood by Seeker's side, but her eyes were focused on Bookman.

Jahaar lit a torch and began his journey inside, taking several strides to cover a single stone step of the temple. The rest of the group followed, lighting torches and lanterns to guide the way into the dark. Seeker held an old oil lamp for their small group of three and made Bookman lead the way. The one thing he hated more than anything was having his back to that man, who kept him in a strong glare that Bookman could feel, hot and hostile on his neck, with each step.

"You'll regret this, Seeker," Bookman said.

"You think that, Bookman, but you're wrong," Seeker answered calmly as they walked beneath the moonlight, into the darkness of an ancient, fleeting place. "Just as you think your apprentice is safe with that man from the Black Order." Bookman's did well to not let his pace slow. He should have realized how intelligent his enemy was. The one to fear was Seeker, not Jahaar.

"You will not be able to control him from afar," Bookman said.

"No," Seeker replied, tone a bit put out. "And here I thought it would have been so interesting to make Junior kill his Master...oh well. I'll have to find a more creative way then, won't I?"

"Master," Sagira said in a whisper.

"Quiet," he ordered her, and her voice did not return as they stepped into the true entrance of the temple. It did not smell rank with antiquity, as Bookman had expected, but like the wind and the dust of the desert. The cool wind that blew through the darkened tunnels was as chill as the evening air outside, almost as if they were standing in a structure whose walls allowed everything to flow right through. It was a strange feeling that made Bookman feel even more unsure about the situation at hand than he had previously. Not only did he have concerns over the group that held him captive, but now of the location as well.

Inside the heart of the temple, Bookman could hear the sound of the Wind.

"We must search as quickly as possible. This temple will disappear at dawn. With us inside it, if we are not careful," Jahaar said when they entered a small antechamber. It reminded Bookman of Thoth's domain, although the ceiling a bit lower and with more doorways. In the square room, there were approximately six of them, black, unknowable portals all leading to different parts of the temple.

"Surely there must be a faster way than searching all of these passageways," said Manesh, crossing his arms. He didn't look excited at the prospect of running around an unknown area in the dark all evening.

"Bookman," Jahaar barked, scaring some of his men, but not the old man, who patiently stood to the side, observing.

"You need not shout, I am right here," Bookman said, just because he knew that it would bother the Arab.

"Are there any indicators in this room as to which doorway we should take?" Jahaar asked, ignoring Bookman's previous statement. With that as much permission as he was going to receive, Bookman broke away from the group and walked towards the large openings within the antechamber. The Egyptians had a complex system of coordination and structure, wherein passageways could go on for days and lead to a dead end, while others had trick walls and rooms that could lock people inside. Using pure observation, Bookman deduced that each path was identical, with the same symbol above each doorway. Nothing had any sort of meaning or purpose as far as he could see, but there was one doorway that spoke to him. It was as if he stood on the threshold between This World and the Next when a voice like silk against his eardrum whispered _leave this place_.

"I see no markings upon any doorway that proves to be of significance," Bookman replied, ignoring the warning and the feeling that he received from that pathway that smelled like the northern winds.

Jahaar looked even more furious than he had earlier that evening. At this rate, Bookman thought he might have an aneurism, judging from the way a certain vein protruded outwards from beneath the skin of his forehead.

"Nothing?" he asked, voice indicating that his patience was being stretched thin.

"Nothing at all," Bookman replied.

"Ridiculous," Jahaar muttered, swearing under his breath in a whole slur of dialects that Bookman could not decipher completely. They were saved from the possibility of a long lecture or pointless shouting when there came a sudden cry from the outside.

"Boss!"

The call came with a sound that tunneled through the entrance, echoing loudly in the cavernous space. Footsteps followed and more torchlight joined them when a group of men from guard appeared. Inside of their five person guard stood two figures bound at the wrists with thick cord. Bookman couldn't believe his eyes: there stood General Yeegar and his own idiotic apprentice, now Jahaar's additional prisoners. When Bookman made eye contact with them, Darpan shrugged his shoulders as if bored and Kevin smiled a bit sheepishly.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Seeker said, like a happy drunk.

"We found them loitering at the top of the western dune," said one of the men.

"We weren't loitering," Yeegar said with a sniff, like he was offended at being accused of something so criminal. "We were sightseeing."

"Sightseeing?" said some of Jahaar's men dubiously. Bookman and Darpan were included in this incredulous question.

"I actually came to return some of your men. You see, they followed my carriage for quite a ways and I thought they might lost so—"

"Regardless, how_ convenient_," said Seeker, in a tone that Bookman understood quite well.

"Why are you here?" Jahaar asked, stepping closer to the bound general and the redheaded boy. Yeegar's expression became one of serious concern.

"I came to warn you to cease your search. The substance you seek is Innocence. It cannot be tamed by someone who is incompatible to use it," Kevin explained, with all the patience of a teacher who had gone through countless multiplication tables and vocabulary drills. "If you pursue it, you will only meet disaster. Without the proper control, Innocence can be extremely destructive."

A ripple of fear traveled through Jahaar's men, but the Arab remained calm.

"You say these words to me as if they are amiable best wishes," Jahaar said with a sneer, "but I know your true motives. You and your _church_ are trying to rob me of what is rightfully mine. I am the one who discovered this hiding place and therefore, I am the one who will take control of the object in question. You, good man, have no power here."

The wind traveled softly across the air, like perfume, fluttering through Bookman's cloak with a caress against his arm. _Leave this place_ it said again, in a voice that came out like a sigh in the night. It came from the doorway that Bookman had felt strange standing in front of before. He refused to look at it, taking the advice whispered to him.

They were but _transient guests_...

Darpan caught Bookman's attention when he realized that the redhead was not paying attention to the general and the Arab, but staring to the side at the doorway where the breath of Innocence exhaled its warnings. His single green eye was gold, flickering in the torchlight, fixed upon the square door frame of stone and air. Jahaar's machete flashed a similar color to Darpan's eye, resting beneath the boy's chin with speed that Bookman found unprecedented to his earlier maneuvers.

"Boy," Jahaar said, in a voice that resembled a cougar: low and dangerous. The tip of the blade slid along Darpan's jaw, then down the curve of his cheek. Bookman quelled the rush of protective instincts that coursed through him, replacing it instead with pride that his apprentice did not flinch beneath the touch of the sharp instrument. When Darpan did not answer him, Jahaar used the blade to force the boy's chin towards him, meeting a dark, almost mesmerized gaze. Looking over his shoulder, the Arab directed his silent question at Seeker, who stood next to Bookman. Even the other historian appeared confused by the child's actions, which signified it was not his doing.

"Leave this place," Darpan said, in a voice so hollow that it sounded as if someone else had taken hold of him. Yeegar looked towards the same doorway Darpan had been so intently staring at, before dropping his gaze to the floor. His eyes were closed, as if listening to something.

For something.

_You're all but transient guests_.

Bookman heard it, felt it, as if a voice full of light had grasped onto every nerve ending in his body. Humans were nothing but fleeting glimpses of life and death upon a radar that stretched for hundreds of thousands of years. Nothing was as evanescent as the human existence, not even the temple that appeared solely on the night of the full moon. This feeling swept over him like wind, like waves on a beach, or the sand that rippled on the blue dunes. It was the voice of the Universe, of unknowable and incomprehensible age. That was Innocence.

"So it's there," Jahaar said. His voice brought Bookman back to the present, where he realized that not only he, but also Darpan and the general were staring at that doorway with unwavering stares. "Very well. Manesh, take the old man."

Jahaar's body guard looked at Bookman and then at Yeegar in a silent question as to _which_ old man had been referred to.

"I'll make it easier for you," Seeker said, pointing at the _gensui_ while he himself stepped a bit more threateningly towards Bookman.

"You'd better watch it," Manesh said, under his breath, "because you're old too."

"Sagira," Seeker barked, making Manesh jump closer to Yeegar (who, the kind old soul, was trying to introduce himself to his captors with polite language and the promise to make them something delicious to eat after they had gone on their "adventure") and Sagira stand at attention.

"Yes," she said.

"Watch the boy," Seeker ordered.

"Yes," Sagira replied.

"_Anyone_ but her," Darpan complained.

"I'll give you something to complain about, Cyclops," she promised.

"Once again, I'm going to bring up your apparent ineptitude when it comes to referring to famous Greek epics, as you don't seem to understand your insults in their literary entirety," Darpan said. Sagira pushed him, but—Bookman noticed—not with the usual amount of bruising force. The redhead seemed to realize this as well, and looked over his shoulder at her with a passing, questioning glance.

"Just keep walking, idiot," she said, her normal sting missing. Seeker did not notice, fortunately, and pushed Bookman along as well in the direction where Jahaar was leading them towards the doorway.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Darpan said quietly, as they entered through the dark portal. Even their torches did nothing to combat the darkness that crept in from all sides, pressing in, further and further the deeper they traveled.

"You're telling me..." Bookman heard Sagira say. They walked in silence for a while, breathing in the heavy, dusty smell of the place, trying not to think about where they were being forced to walk. To the heart of a temple, where death awaited? It was very likely that the threat of the Wind had not been a jest...

"Ow!" Darpan let out in a harsh whisper.

"Shut up," Sagira said. Her voice shook only slightly in the blackness.

"You stepped on my foot," Darpan whined quietly.

"You deserve it," Sagira replied.

"Don't be such a wench," said Darpan. Bookman heard her slap the back of his head.

"I told you to shut up!" Sagira said.

"That's my girl," Seeker praised in a proud tone from behind Bookman's right shoulder.

"Crazy bastard," Darpan muttered; Sagira hit him again. "Ow! Damn you!"

"Now, now, let's all be calm here," came Yeegar's voice of reason from behind all of them.

"Tell that to this crazy—"

Darpan's exclamation cut off when the tunnel opened up slightly, allowing for people in the group to stand side-by-side instead of one directly behind the other. As they walked further, the space grew larger and the darkness less oppressive. Finally, they came into a perfect half-circle of a room that curved with beautiful simplicity in a wide arch above their heads. Their light threw the smooth walls into a gentle illumination. Despite the craftsmanship that had to have been a great achievement in the days of the chisel and hammer, there was nothing inside of it except for a sandy floor. No other doorway led out and only the entrance in which they had entered served as an exit.

"What is this...?" Jahaar asked, stepping into the room, disbelief in his voice.

"It's...a big round room?" Darpan offered quietly so that Jahaar did not hear his sarcastic remark. As the rest of the party filed into the space, Jahaar walked around and around in circles, searching every inch of the place in hopes of locating his treasure. Apparently not only was the place a big, round room, but it was an empty, big, round room.

Jahaar looked as if he might pull his hair out.

"What is THIS?" he shouted loudly. His men tried to console him, but they were pushed aside and given chores to search the ground completely for some sort of clue: a trap door or sun dial similar to that in the temple of wisdom. Really, Jahaar was looking for anything that might be a clue to the existence of the object. While this occurred, the captives stood off to the side, leaving Manesh and Sagira as guards while Seeker spoke with Jahaar across the room from them in a frantic, north-African language that Bookman did not understand.

"So is anyone else thinking that this was just a big waste of time?" Darpan asked at an attempt at humor. "Oh, c'mon, let's have a show of hands. Oh, but wait. Never mind." With everyone bound they way they were, Bookman did not think it was funny.

"You were supposed to keep him away from here, you know," Bookman said to the General in quiet, northern-dialectical German.

"Quite aware," Kevin replied easily, "but he's quite the smart lad. Probably could figure his way out of things Harry Houdini couldn't manage..." Bookman did not want to know by which methods Yeegar had been attempting to keep Darpan from coming along, and instead continued:

"Well now we're in quite the predicament. Did you allow yourself to be captured?'

"Absolutely. And yourself?"

"Of course. Do you have a course of action?"

"Not in its entirety as of yet, but I am one to 'go with the flow' as they say."

"I do believe that we may be in trouble now."

"Oh, nonsense. We'll get out of this easily, along with the Innocence."

"You think so?"

"I cannot leave without it." Yeegar's tone was serious and Bookman knew that the general meant his words.

In the half-hemisphere shaped room, a voice murmured like silk over a mahogany floor in autumn: Y_ou only live in half the world._

"Half the world...interesting," Yeegar mused in English.

"Are we all collectively hearing voices?" Darpan asked; Sagira gave him a weird look while Manesh stared straight ahead, ignoring them completely. Bookman's kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed. Truly, he and Darpan were like Yeegar: the both of them could hear Innocence as plain as day. And that meant—

"Do you think it may be relevant?" Bookman asked the general, ignoring Darpan while hoping that Yeegar did not think too much on the fact that they could hear what the general heard, resonating inside the temple.

"Perhaps it might be," Yeegar said, but with no definitive answer. Beneath his cloak, Bookman rubbed his wrists together, using his fingers to attempt to undo the knot that kept him bound.

"Is all Innocence this talkative?" Darpan continued, mostly speaking to himself as he shrugged, raising both his hand in the air as he finished with: "because Hell if I know what's going on."

There was a moment in which it took Bookman a moment to realize what he was seeing: that Darpan was no longer tied up. Sagira noticed as well, and grabbed his arm to pull it down, out of sight. But it was too late, as Manesh saw, and was about to raise the alarm to the rest of the group when Sagira kicked the man in the back of the knee, bringing him down to the ground. Once down at her level, she swiftly knocked him unconscious with a well placed jab to the solar plexus. It took about fifteen seconds, maybe less.

"Nice," Darpan said in a complimentary manner.

"Thanks," she replied, throwing her hair over her shoulder as Darpan pulled out his dagger and cut the ropes binding Yeegar and Bookman.

"And thanks for untying me," Darpan added.

"Do me a favor and don't suck, okay? It's bad enough you have horrible timing," Sagira said. And she was right. By this time, they had drawn attention to themselves and Jahaar was beside himself with rage. Not only was his plan not going smoothly, but now his captives had escaped. Surrounding their small group of four, his men held out their weapons to keep them from getting away. Standing next to Jahaar, Seeker was livid.

"Sagira!" his voice boomed, loudly echoing in the dome. The girl did not answer him, taking on a fighting stance beside Darpan, who mirrored her movements. At least her loyalty had not been a farce as Bookman had presumed.

"Nice to know you're on our side," Darpan said, and added, "so don't suck, okay?"

"Don't get too comfortable, Cyclops," Sagira replied.

"Really, you're still rolling with that insult?" Darpan asked, incredulously.

"Is this really the time to be bitching like a woman?" Sagira inquired, her position not wavering from one of complete concentration.

"Oh, if you weren't a woman, I'd put you down so hard right now," Darpan said.

"Now, now, let's not fight, children..." Yeegar intervened gently, like the mediator he had probably been during fights in the elementary school level.

"Just stay out of this!" both the apprentices told to him.

"Now please, there's no need for violence, from any of you," Yeegar said, directing it mostly at the people surrounding them. The group of desert men watched on with disbelief at the scene, probably wondering how one of their own had been done in so quickly by a child. Meanwhile, Jahaar remained in a difficult place, as he couldn't kill them because he still thought he needed Bookman. Seeker, on the other hand, was not bound by any decree, now that he had discovered his apprentice's treachery. Truly, that man was the only one that they had to worry about.

"Kill the priest," said Jahaar in a commanding tenor, "and capture the old man. The children...do whatever you want with them." With that order, the men came at them with clear intent. On the right side, the two apprentices began fighting in efficient, hand-to-hand combat. Just like the time Bookman had first seen Lavi in action back in Headquarters, he watched as Darpan fought with expert skill. Half-way through the fight, Darpan switched from his usual tactics and mimicked Sagira's fighting style to synchronize their movements, thereby creating a success percentile range that doubled from its previous figure. Meanwhile, on Bookman's left, Yeegar was trying to keep the peace from the advancing fighters by evading their attacks. He would not use his weapon until the last moment, when there was no chance for reconciliation without bloodshed or injury. Bookman himself faced the attackers from directly in front of them. Although he rarely used his skills, Bookman had been trained in several prestigious, ancient schools of martial arts in China as well as the Nepali side of the Xiziang Province. He put four men down without even breaking a sweat. In fact, it was a bit invigorating to feel so young again...

_You tip the balance in half your world..._

The center of the room dipped into a perfect circle and sand began to swirl into it, like a drain, leaving a bare floor beneath their feet. An ornate design of hieroglyphics created a spheres within spheres of text and drawings, moving towards the hole that had formed in the middle of the room.

_...and you_...

So consumed with watching the shift in the space they occupied, Bookman hadn't noticed the sudden proximity of a body in front of him until the steel of Darpan's blade was pressed against his throat. An single, unseeing eye stared up at him from under red, red fringe.

_...cannot see without looking_.

**pqpq**

Finished, darlings. Not really a big cliffhanger (in fact, this chapter was kind of boring? Nothing really happened?) and there is more to come! My goal is to update at least twice a week while I'm out for the summer break (AKA Tomorrow)! Would that make up for all the lost time? I hope so, because all of you have been so wonderfully patient! Thank you so much for your continued love and support.

**~Dhampir72**


	37. Illusions

**Author's Note:** I know that I promised multiple updates by now, but I keep running into bad luck. Our plumbing quit on us last Monday, so after I got off work, I was helping with that every day this past week. In doing so, I sliced up my thumb pretty bad, so every time I hit the space bar, I want to cry a little inside. However, I did manage to work a little bit on this and, to show my love, I also posted an additional story as a companion piece to this chapter, which you should read after this.

**Thank you to**: winegoldsayuri, NellaXIval, Something, mk17design, Astaline Nihtingale, Fall in Snow, kuzon234ray, AnimeM22, Astarael-7th, Chocobo Confectionary, RobotInTheRoom, SilverKleptoFox, Saturns-Moon, DevilChile, Lohikrmesielu, Maydn, Shade, and everyone else who alerted/favorite this story. You guys are awesome. A special thank you to **Astarael-7th**, who provided me with private words of encouragement and an amazing Chinese swear.

**pqpq**

This kid got possessed too much.

That was the only thing Bookman could think as everything around him suddenly went to hell in a handbasket. Sagira, distracted by the sudden turn of events, was kicked roughly in the ribs by one of Jahaar's men with whom she had been fighting. When she hit the wall behind Bookman and slumped down to the ground, the girl did not rise again. It left Bookman standing, somewhat helplessly, at knife point, while Yeegar continued to evade the violent jabs of machetes directed his way. Directly in front of Bookman, Jahaar stood with a triumphant grin; beside him, Seeker's face was cast into a dark, malicious shadow. His dark gaze seemed to inquire tauntingly: _What will you do now?_

He presumed that Bookman was in no position to resist, as it was his apprentice who held the blade, but Seeker did not know that this had happened before back in that secret room beneath Lady Alexandra's mansion in Greece. Just like that time, Bookman had no qualms about putting the boy down. With years of training behind his hands, he was able to disarm Darpan, the tip of the dagger dragged across his neck, leaving a warm stinging sensation in its wake. It was nothing fatal, just a scratch, from the weapon that now lay in the dust behind him. Before Bookman, his apprentice crouched in a defensive position, vacant eye staring blankly ahead.

_He'll kill you. _

The voice did not belong to the Innocence, that Bookman knew, but whose voice it could have been, he could not imagine. His focus was instead on the current moment, where Darpan rushed at him with hard, accurate strikes at his body. Seeker had tapped into every part of his mind, infiltrating all action and knowledge, which included Lavi's fighting skill. Because the boy was physically small and agile, it made him a bit formidable, though Bookman was able to deflect each movement. However, if he were to falter only slightly—with a foot that slid in the sand or a reflex that came too slowly—Bookman knew that Lavi was perfectly capable of rendering him paralyzed with a few maneuvers. It wasn't strength so much as it was accuracy on those certain points of the body which no human being could withstand a single strike.

_Fight._

Out of the corner of his eye, Bookman saw Sagira coming their way. With the force of a palm thrust against Darpan's chest, he pushed the boy several feet away, giving him a few seconds to deal with the girl. Her own dark eyes were unresponsive as she attacked him with rapid punches and kicks, which Bookman defended against. His arms would bruise, but at that moment, he knew that all he could do was push them back until he had the opportunity. When that happened, perhaps he could reverse the hypnosis without hurting the children too badly in the process.

_Attack._

Sagira's body, already physically weak from the beating she had received prior, reacted slower, even under Seeker's control. Evading her attack to one of the brachial pressure points in his right arm, Bookman struck her with the tips of his fingers directly in her stomach. She crumpled immediately and remained on the ground, unable to move. Darpan, however, did manage to stand. His body swayed for only a moment, the result of the blow to his chest, but after a moment of regaining balance, his uncomprehending eye focused once more on Bookman.

_Stop._

The word spoken was a weak ringing in Bookman's ears, different from the commanding voice from before. He could not think about it, preparing himself as his apprentice came at him again. Bookman avoided him, sidestepping to throw the boy off balance. Although Darpan had missed him, he did not fall, instead skidding across the intricate stone floor on the limited grains of sand that still remained. With this motion, the redhead managed to retrieve his blade. That might have been his plan all along, because once his fingers were secure around the hilt, Darpan turned and immediately hurried in Bookman's direction again with the tip pointing at him with clear intent. In this span of seconds, Bookman searched for an opening. When the boy was within a few feet of him, he found one. Using his pointer and middle fingers, Bookman struck the redhead's left shoulder before he could lift the knife. The boy's intended attack was halted, allowing the old man to force Darpan down to the ground, pinning him effectively so that he could not rise or fight. The dagger had fallen from his apprentice's hand, out of reach beside them.

"Wake up," Bookman commanded him, though it did not seem as if the boy could comprehend his speech. Up close, Bookman could see all the minute details that usually went unnoticed: everything from the part of his henna colored hair to the pale freckles on Lavi's nose that had been slowly fading as he aged. He could see the curve of his lashes around the left eye, where Bookman noticed that the iris was a thin, green crust around a dilated pupil. It was an endless expanse of black that held his apprentice in a state he could not wake from.

_Stop._

There it was again: a small, whispered request that brushed against his psyche. He could not identify where he had heard it before, but knew that it was neither the Innocence, nor that authoritative tone from before. It bothered him that he could not discern its origin.

_Jiji._

In that moment the name was spoken, Bookman's senses were catapulted into overdrive, where it felt like his awareness was sucked inside the black, pulling beyond the dark lashes and thin green ring of color that framed the darkness. When he emerged from the sensation, Bookman found himself flat on his back, lying on a cold floor. The ceiling above him was a familiar, curved arch of stone and light. Upon sitting up, Bookman realized where he was: East Library. However, it was not East Library as he knew it. The usually tidy desks and bookshelves were in disarray. Every surface had stacks of tomes and documents. Broken quills littered the floor among old ink stains that looked like black blood splatters against the marble floors. Around him, Bookman noticed that many volumes were missing from the shelves, leaving gaps in their wake.

_Jiji._

He turned around. A few feet behind him stood a boy, no older than four, draped in a Clan shawl. The single green eye and unmistakable red hair told Bookman exactly who it was.

"Lavi," Bookman said, and the boy's eye became as wide as a saucer. His face was white to the point where he was almost transparent and he appeared frightened by Bookman's sudden presence. Shaking his head mutely, he stepped backwards hesitantly, still looking afraid. Directly behind the child appeared another form, slightly taller and a little healthier looking, though not by much: the redhead whom Bookman had met back at Clan headquarters years ago. He put his hands on the child's shoulders, stilling his retreat. Another green eye focused directly on him, but it was deeper, calmer than the smaller boy's had been.

"We are not Lavi," said the older image. Bookman looked at him and then at the child, recalling a conversation that he and Elizaveta had had back in the mountains during a cool spring a few years prior. _Perhaps you've overlooked something, or should I say someone. His name is Rohan._ The older boy smiled, but only slightly, as if he had heard the old woman's words ringing in his mind as well. It was not the bright expression that Bookman had seen Lavi wear before, but the tight, controlled smile that never reached the eye.

_Jiji._

Their images flickered, as if a hologram. Bookman realized then that their paleness was not due to ill health or malnutrition. They actually were semi-transparent, fading quickly into nothingness; the books on the shelves followed their slow path into disappearing.

"We're calling for you," said Rohan, his voice calm, as if unperturbed by the situation at hand. The smaller version of himself hid beneath his cloak, burrowing against Rohan's side as if for protection. Bookman could barely see the thin arms that clung to the taller boy's body.

"Why?" Bookman asked, looking upward as some of their light cut out. A part of the ceiling had been swallowed by darkness.

"Because we're dying," Rohan replied, the single green eye focused on Bookman. "You're the one killing us."

"You are mistaken," Bookman said. "You are under Seeker's control. When you break free of his spell, you will see that you are in perfect health."

"You are the one who is mistaken," Rohan said, his voice unapologetic despite the outright challenge. "It is you, Bookman, who has been captured by the Mentalist. When you break free of his spell, you will see what you have done." The child had completely disappeared. Rohan was a mere outline filled in with washed out color.

_Jiji._

"There," Rohan said, raising his arm to point at a door directly to Bookman's right. His finger was almost imperceptible, but Bookman followed its direction and put his hand on the doorknob, stopping only to glance back at Rohan for a moment. He stood there in place, where the material things in the room began melting instead of fading. It looked like ink pouring down over the shelves and tables, pooling around Bookman's ankles.

"_Please stop, Jiji." _

The voice in Bookman's head resonated in unison with the words that Rohan spoke, his eye closing as he sunk into the black water. He disappeared with a splash that whispered quietly:

_Please, save us._

**pqpq**

Beyond the door, there was darkness.

Bookman walked into it, not knowing where it would lead him. His footsteps rang out in the space, sounding as if he were walking on glass. Treading carefully, Bookman searched for Lavi in the nothingness. Were they both the victims of Seeker's mental games? Or was this all an illusion that Seeker was putting him through? Bookman then had to wonder what was real in the first place. Was it his apprentice who had been under Seeker's control, or Bookman? Was Rohan telling the truth and were Bookman's hands killing the boy's physical body at that very moment?

It felt suddenly very cold.

"Lavi," Bookman said, hearing his voice, although quiet, echo within the unknown space.

_Jiji... _

As the word was spoken again, the boy's distorted image came into sight. His body lay on its side upon the floor, unmoving. Just as the voice had sounded faint, the figure was in the same state of slowly fading away, like the two forms Bookman had seen earlier. When Bookman neared him, he could see that beneath Lavi's body, a mirrored image of him lay in the same position. Both Lavi and Darpan slowly turned their ashen, identical faces slowly in his direction.

_Jiji…_

Bookman could barely hear Lavi's voice, but he watched the movement of his apprentice's pale lips and knew. Rohan had been correct. Lavi had somehow managed to bring Bookman into the decimated place inside his own mind to tell him this truth.

_Wake up._

Pain assaulted Bookman's head, pulling him back from Lavi and out through the darkness and into the temple.

_Wake up._

It was a woman's voice this time, speaking to him as he regained his senses. He did not recognize it, too concerned with what had hit him so roughly. A steel toed traveling boot lay next to him, accounting for the aching in his head. Glancing upward, Bookman realized that Sagira had finally gotten back on her feet and used his momentary lapse of consciousness within Lavi's mind to attack him. No longer was Bookman restraining Darpan, but instead found that he was several feet away, most likely having recoiled from the pain Sagira's boot had caused him. The girl in question stood in front of the redhead, her eyes still vacant as she came forward to attack him with a jagged dagger she had removed from her belt. Bookman knew that with Darpan, he had been under the influence of Seeker, but was Sagira's hostility another figment of his mental abilities? Or was she truly under his control? Not wanting to find out the hard way, Bookman evaded her attack.

_Wake up._

Behind her, Bookman saw Darpan gasping for air weakly, giving him some comfort to know he had not killed the boy. At that moment, however, there was no time for relief, as he had to deal with Sagira. She left no openings for him to reach her, but after several moments, when her momentum began to decrease again, Bookman found his opportunity and hit a point on her neck that rendered her unconscious immediately. The weapon fell from her hand, clattering on the stone floor. Bookman picked it up so that she could not use it again if she were to regain awareness.

_No._

It was Lavi's voice: stronger than before, but just as desperate. It seemed to echo in the empty room. In that moment, Bookman realized that Jahaar and Seeker were gone, as were Yeegar and the rest of Jahaar's cronies whom he had been fighting before. To where had they disappeared? Had Jahaar and Seeker stolen away down another one of the temple's hallways to search for the Innocence? Had Yeegar followed? Not knowing these answers, Bookman instead occupied himself with his apprentice and began walking towards where Darpan's form lay, covered in dust, now unmoving…

_No, Jiji. Don't._

Bookman stopped. He could still hear his apprentice, but it was as it had been before; distorted, like Darpan was calling him through a pipe some distance away. There was something not right.

_Stop._

He was still under Seeker's control.

_Jiji._

His hand clutched the hilt of the dagger tighter at the tone of Lavi's voice.

_Wake up. _

The image of the room before him bent, as if he were looking at it from the wrong end of an optical lens. It then shimmered as it straightened the picture, showing a grimmer reality than the world Bookman had just emerged from. The old man discovered himself standing there with a sheath in his left hand, a blade in his right. At his feet, Sagira lay bloody and bruised; breathing, but looking as if she were in bad shape. Bookman realized that he must have disarmed her after hurting her, stealing the blade that he held, the point pressed directly against his jugular. He had been just seconds away from ending his own life. Bookman dropped it quickly, senses reeling as he attempted to resurface completely from the intense illusion.

"Jiji…"

Bookman's attention turned from Sagira to his apprentice, who sat on the ground a few feet from him, his face pale and body shaking. His lip was bleeding. Bookman could see cuts and red marks decorating his exposed skin. But these things were not the most important; it was the expression he wore: as if he had seen something that could be unseen, or done something that could not be undone.

"I'm sorry…I had to…b-but I didn't mean to…" he said, quickly, voice thick with disbelief. Bookman at first did not understand, until he noticed that the room was as he had left it: with other people in it. There was Kevin, using all his abilities to not have to resort to utilizing his weapon, continued to evade Jahaar's persistent men. And then there was the leader in question, who remained rooted to the same spot Bookman recalled, but without the smug expression from earlier. It had been replaced with utter shock, anger beginning to mount close behind it. Bookman realized why when his eyes followed Jahaar's, finally falling upon Seeker. No longer beside the Arab; Seeker instead lay on the ground at a strange angle, very close to Darpan. When Bookman stepped closer to investigate, he could see the hilt of Lavi's blade protruding from the man's neck. It looked as if it had been thrown from a low angle, missing the intended target of the left shoulder, instead embedding itself right into the other Bookman's throat, killing him almost instantly.

"I'm sorry…" Darpan said again, a bit more earnestly than before. "He was going to…I had to…" Bookman recalled his position upon waking, just centimeters before ending his own life due to Seeker's power. He did not know how he should have felt about the situation and the dead man at his feet. Seeker, although having let the power go to his head, was a Bookman too. It felt almost like treachery to have ended his life. Bookman's gaze shifted to Darpan. He could see the marks on the boy's throat where his own hands had nearly killed him.

All because of the Bookman known as Seeker.

"I'm sorry…" Darpan repeated and Bookman could hear his uneven breaths becoming more frantic. He had killed another Bookman and the consequences were probably running through his head a mile a minute. Killing another member of the Clan was not something to be taken lightly.

"Stop your dithering," Bookman said, though there was no force behind it. He could not outright praise the boy for his deed, though he wanted to. After all, Darpan had saved his life, but it was at the cost of another person's existence. That was a violation of Clan law: stepping beyond the realm of pure observation and acting, altering the state of the world. But just like the time before, in the darkness of that underground library in Belgrade, his apprentice had come to his aid. With Baqer, it had been a relief. With Seeker, it felt heavier, despite Bookman having no attachment to the man who continued to bleed out onto the floor. Despite everything, when it came down to it, Bookman was glad it was he who was the one who was still breathing.

"I…" Darpan began, but Bookman stopped him with a look that quieted him completely. He looked like he wanted to say more, but his expression paled even further when a small voice said:

"Ustadh?"

Sagira had shakily pushed herself up from where she had fallen. Completely ignoring the two of them, she practically crawled over to her master's side. Despite him being corrupt and, as Sagira had said before, _wrong_ in his actions, he had still been the girl's mentor. She stared at the body, shaking her head in disbelief. Bookman watched as her eyes fell upon the blade in Seeker's neck, obviously a weapon allocated by the Clan, as it bore the crest and pattern. Although shaking with exhaustion, Sagira rounded on Darpan and began hitting him weakly with her balled up fists.

"You! You killed Ustadh! You killed him!" she cried. The redhead looked like he was too far gone to feel the beating he received. It was only a few moments before Sagira's last remaining bit of strength gave out and she was instead leaning on Darpan, sobbing out unintelligible words against his shoulder.

Across the room, Yeegar had been distracted by the cry concerning a death, readily surrendering to the men with whom he had been trying not to engage in battle. When the general was brought to Jahaar, Bookman could see his mind working in overtime, trying to figure out an alternate plan to get the treasure he so desired. Without Seeker, he had little leverage.

"Get the rest of them," Jahaar ordered. "Bind all of them except the boy." The three men who had captured Yeegar tied his hands behind his back, before joining a few more of Jahaar's cronies to get the rest of them. Most of them looked roughed up, probably from the injuries they sustained earlier from the children and Bookman himself. They appeared gleeful to take a bit of revenge for their earlier shortcomings. Bookman, in no physical or mental state to do anything further, allowed himself to be taken and bound with his hands in front of him, not resisting the coarse rope used around his wrists. Sagira, meanwhile, was torn away from Darpan, her face a red, dirty mess. She hadn't cried, but her feelings were clear and when they forced her into restraints, she did not fight. One of the remaining men grabbed Darpan by his hair and dragged him upward, pulling him roughly to stand in front of Jahaar.

"You're the only one small enough to fit down there," Jahaar said. Bookman realized that those words were in reference to the hole in the floor that had appeared when the room shifted. It felt like it had been so long ago, when truly only an hour or so had passed. Their mission was the Innocence that dwelled inside. Truly, he had almost forgotten, his gaze flickering to where Seeker's body still lay behind them. Bookman itched for a cigarette to rid himself of the shakes that took hold of his hands, a side effect of the illusions he had seen and the adrenaline that had kept him fighting. His head ached where Sagira had hit him with her boot as other parts of his body began protesting with their own complaints. While under Seeker's control, Bookman had not only dealt serious damage, but also received it, judging from the soreness in his extremities.

But he was getting distracted.

Focusing on the present happenings, Bookman watched as two men procured a long length of rope. They were planning on lowering Darpan into that unknowable place to retrieve the Innocence. Jahaar did not seem to care about the safety of his apprentice in the slightest. He pointed his blade at the redhead in a threatening manner, which made it clear his intentions: if Darpan were to go down and get the Innocence, then Jahaar would "give up his prisoners". Bookman doubted if he would prove good on that promise, his instinctive want to protect the boy from harm rising upwards.

But there was nothing he could _do_. Who was to say that Jahaar didn't kill the boy right there? And even if he did not, and Bookman and Kevin managed to overpower the rest of the group, who was to say that Yeegar would not ask the same thing of Darpan?

There was no other choice.

"Go down there and get my treasure boy," Jahaar said. The redhead wrapped the bottom of the rope around his leg for some kind of support, gripping onto the rest to hold on. His single green eye met Bookman's for only a moment, as if searching, before he was gone. Bookman was left to watch as they lowered Darpan into the cavern, where he disappeared into the darkness, leaving the rope as his only lifeline. Silence followed, wherein everyone listened for something from the boy inside.

"Do you see anything?" Jahaar asked, standing next to the hole impatiently. The night had gone by quickly, leaving them with limited time to get in and get out. They could not dally, as it was unknown, when it became dawn, if they would be trapped inside the temple or if the structure would merely disappear into the morning air.

"No," came Darpan's response. He sounded far down into the earth. "It's really dark down here…"

"Just keep going," Jahaar said, as his men continued to give rope. When there was a tug, they stopped providing him with length and waited for his report. Jahaar stood by anxiously, pacing around the hole as he waited. "Well, what do you see, boy?" Even though his tone commanded an answer, none came. There was only silence for the longest time. Bookman's fingers shook worse as the moments dragged on, head throbbing in time with his heart. The Innocence had told them to leave and none of them had listened. What would it do to his apprentice, who went without any means of defense into the abyss? They waited and waited, but there was no answer from within. Frustrated, Jahaar grabbed Bookman roughly by his left arm and brought him to the edge, forcing him down beside the opening. "Make him answer."

"Darpan," Bookman said into the black. Just like before, he felt as if he were searching for the boy in unknown territory. And just like before, Lavi was somewhere in there, perhaps needing his help. Bookman gripped the edge of the hole with his wrists still bound tightly together, straining his ears for any sound, but there was none. No answer came.

The air coming from the chasm felt cold.

"Dammit," cursed Jahaar, stalking away in a temper. Bookman remained by the opening, hoping to hear something. Nothing came for the longest time and his concern grew heavier with each passing moment. What was down there? Bookman did not want to imagine. The child had already been through too much in one evening and the current situation on top of it was not helping either of them. Bookman decided that if Lavi died, he would kill him, plain and simple. Although it wasn't a logical thought, it put him slightly at ease. It was better than the alternative, where he imagined a mutilated corpse at the bottom of that God-forsaken hole. That was the reason why they did not get involved. If the Chancellor knew, he would laugh until he shat himself. Even more so when he found that the entirety of the mess was Bookman's fault.

Seeker was at fault as well, but there were no punishments for dead men.

"Pull the kid up," Jahaar decided with an angry gesture of his hand. With this order, the men nodded and began pulling the rope, but then stopped, hesitantly looking at the Arab.

"It's too light. He's not holding onto it anymore," said one of them. That was not what Bookman wanted to hear. His passing thoughts were jumbled enough as it is, colored with emotion that he should not have felt, only serving to increase Bookman's mounting worry. The tips of his nails dug into the stone around the opening. There had already been one Bookman who lost his life that night.

Another was out of the question.

"Call him again," Jahaar ordered, although he did not have to. Bookman did a second time, and then a third. Still, no response came. No illumination emanated from the opening. Perhaps the Innocence wasn't there after all…When Bookman looked back at Kevin to inquire about this, he needed not say anything. Yeegar's shoulders slumped, believing his mission to be over without any positive results: the deaths of two people on his conscious. Sagira, burdened as well, sunk down to the ground, leaning against the general's leg for support. She only had one shoe on; her other foot had a dirty sock with a hole in the toe, which she twisted in the dirt. Her eyes were far away.

"You don't think he's dead, do you?" she asked quietly, voice not giving away any emotion. When Bookman looked at her more closely, though, he saw that tears were falling down her cheeks quietly. Bookman did not know what to think. If he had been able to go down there, he would have, but even Sagira wasn't small enough to fit into that narrow space, so they were left there with nothing to do but wait.

And wait they did.

**pqpq**

After an eternity, the men holding the rope suddenly jumped to attention.

"Something's down there," one of them said, looking to Jahaar for orders. They would face one of two things: either it was Darpan or it was the thing that had most likely killed him.

"Pull it up, then," Jahaar said, and they obeyed, working quickly to retrieve the length they had lowered down, while the Arab remained by the opening, his machete out and at the ready. Yeegar was practically in a crouched position, ready to capture the Innocence if need be. Beside him, Sagira watched, unblinkingly, as they pulled up a small, human form. What appeared nearly stopped Bookman's anxious heart, though he would never admit to such a feeling. It was Darpan, pale beneath the dirt and blood on him. When he was on flat ground again, he said nothing and fell forward against the stone floor, sending up a cloud of dust.

Even through the brown, heavy air, Bookman could see a steady green glow from beneath Darpan's cloak.

Jahaar saw it as well, moving forward to take the Innocence just as Yeegar stepped closer to stop him. He had gotten out of his bindings ages ago while they had been waiting. Bookman saw that his hand had reached into his coat for his weapon; things were becoming serious if that was the case, as Kevin was anti-violence. The Arab, noticing this development, pointed his blade at Yeegar's chest, a silent threat.

"You cannot handle the Innocence. It will reject you," Yeegar said seriously, not wavering the slightest in fear of Jahaar. "Please, listen to my words. I do not want to see you injured."

"Step away," Jahaar said, stabbing his machete into the dirt, centimeters from the crown of Darpan's head, "or I'll kill this boy without hesitation."

"You know not what you do," Yeegar said, forced to retreat.

"On the contrary, I know exactly what I do," Jahaar said, moving Darpan's coat back with a quick flick of his wrist. It revealed Darpan's arms wrapped tightly around the Innocence, cradling it against his chest in unconsciousness. "Now, come to me, my sweet. I am your new master." Jahaar's long fingers moved towards the light, looking like the deranged appendages of a greedy spider seeking a meal. He was seconds away from grasping onto it when that light burst into an intensity that rivaled the midday sun. It forced Bookman to shield his eyes and turn away; Kevin and Sagira most likely did the same to save their retinas. When it died down after a few seconds and Bookman was able to look back, he saw Jahaar in the same position, fingertips frozen in mid-air. His eyes were wide and staring, dazed from the brightness, most likely leaving him temporarily sightless, but this did not seem to disturb him. Unable to see, he continued to reach—now blindly—towards the Innocence.

And it reacted violently.

With a force able to break the fragile bones of the human body, the Innocence sent forth a gale of wind that knocked him off his feet. He skidded backwards over the floor, slamming roughly into the nearby wall. When he did not get back up, Jahaar's men put a good amount of distance between themselves and the energy source.

Yeegar got closer.

"Let go of the Innocence, child," the general said, when he was next to Darpan. His voice was a gentle, soothing tenor, but Bookman saw that his apprentice did not move. Either he remained obstinate or Darpan was still unconscious, but in either case, Yeegar had to reach for the Innocence. Like Jahaar, Yeegar was pushed back, though perhaps with less force, as the general only slid back a few feet. When he came back towards Darpan again, however, the Innocence was less forgiving. From the safety of the redhead's arms, the Innocence lashed out with whipping winds. Being sentient, Bookman presumed that the crystal was smart enough to realize Yeegar could not attack it directly while it had a human shield.

Yeegar brought out his own weapon to deflect the attack. A pair of chained pendulums easily sliced through the wind, glowing their own shade of green as they flew with unparalleled speed through the air. Pulsing, the Innocence retaliated. Bookman could feel the amount of energy it gathered, shaking the room with it. Throwing his cloak over Sagira, Bookman attempted to shield her from whatever attack was coming. The room once again was enveloped in white. The last thing Bookman saw through the hurricane-force winds was Yeegar's pendulums slicing through the gales. The last thing he heard was a soft voice on the edge of unconsciousness.

_You are the Gray in this world of Black and White._

**pqpq**

When Bookman awoke, it was to sunshine and crisp sheets that smelled like freshly pressed cotton. A sterile smell followed, accompanied by the gentle dripping of an IV. The word _hospital _came to mind and when Bookman raised his right arm, he saw the plastic tape and thick gauze, solidifying his previous conjecture. Slowly, Bookman began a checklist of his injuries, which mostly consisted of lacerations and bruises. His head was sore as well, but it seemed as if nothing was broken. After trying to move his left hand's fingers and failing to do so, Bookman turned his head to see the reason for its numbness. A warm weight rested there, effectively keeping him from shifting even an inch. It had a shock of red hair spilling out from between the wraps of white bandages.

"He hasn't left your side since he woke up."

At those words, Bookman turned his head in the opposite direction. With his Exorcist coat over his shoulders, Kevin stood in the doorway, a knowing smile on his lips. Stepping inside, he crossed the small room and took a seat on the other side of Bookman's bed.

"Where are we?" Bookman asked.

"Cairo. In a clinic on the south side," Yeegar replied, "the lot of you were badly injured, so I brought you to the closest medical facility." Bookman glanced at his apprentice, who remained sleeping heavily on his left arm. It was a strange image in his mind, to imagine the boy keeping vigil by his bedside. The way his bandaged fingers were clasped around Bookman's wrist silently attested to his concern. Perhaps it was the ordeal, but Bookman allowed himself the smallest of fond smiles towards him. Kevin must have noticed, because it was too obvious not to. "He's a good boy."

"When he wants to be," Bookman answered. The general chuckled. Years had allowed them both to know and understand each other rather well for just passing acquaintances; Yeegar understood the affection that Bookman could never say out loud.

"The girl is with us as well," Yeegar said, changing the subject, "she should be all right in a few days." Bookman did not want to think about those additional injuries he inflicted upon Sagira, nor did he want to ask the question that he knew he must inquire.

"And Seeker?" he asked.

"Beside you," Kevin replied, nodding at Bookman's bedside. A plain, brass tipped urn sat like a black weight beside him. "I was told that was standard procedure."

"Yes," Bookman said.

"The girl did report this, you know," Yeegar informed him, eyes serious.

"Did she," was Bookman's only response. His eyes had once again shifted to his apprentice. Lavi was already disliked enough by the Chancellor. If word got out that he was the one who ended Seeker's life...

"She informed them of the accident, caused by a rebel group of treasure-hunting thieves. Said thieves escaped before I had time to go back for them, but I doubt that they'll be causing any trouble for a while" Yeegar said, but then he must have noticed Bookman's preoccupation because he said: "She did not mention the boy."

"I see," Bookman said, though his relief did not come as quickly as he thought it would. Seeker's urn was there as the solid reminder of what had happened. Surely inquisitors would be coming to collect it. He would not be able to rest easy until it was clearly stated that Lavi was not involved, under any name he might have had during the time.

"Yes," said Yeegar, and that was all on the subject.

"And the Innocence?"

"Retrieved," Kevin said, opening his coat to show Bookman. Inside were several glowing pieces of Innocence that hummed softly with energy. He did not know which one it was, but at least Yeegar had gotten what he came for.

"And I presume your mission is done now," Bookman said.

"Yes, I will begin my return to the Order this afternoon," he replied. Heaviness had settled over his brow like a shadow.

"There is something else," Bookman stated, not asking, knowing that Kevin had something else he was not outright saying. Just as the general knew Bookman's nuances, Bookman knew Yeegar's personality. There was something he was expected to do that he had no pleasure in doing.

"The same topic that has come up for years now," Yeegar said and Bookman shook his head.

"You know the answer already," he replied, not wanting to discuss the matter any longer.

"It's becoming stronger and you understand this," Yeegar replied, sighing as he leaned back in his chair. "The Order knows that you may be a compatible user."

"At my age, I would be rather useless," Bookman said. Yeegar gave him a wry smile.

"Your age has nothing to do with anything. You and I both know that," Yeegar replied with a tired smile. "You are just adamant not to fulfill this role."

"I have a role and this one is enough," Bookman said simply. His gaze was once more drawn to Darpan, who continued to sleep soundly through their exchange. As long as Bookman did not move, he would remain unaware throughout the rest of it, which was all for the better. Yeegar followed his gaze, letting his eyes rest on the boy as well.

"He also shows potential," said Yeegar, pulling out a single cube of Innocence from the inside of his coat. The light pulsated and continued with its low, steady hum of energy. "This is the Innocence that he recovered. It is not a piece that he would be compatible with, as their wavelengths diverge too greatly. But there is a certain resonance... with you as well." Yeegar held the Innocence in his palms, the light illuminating his face. The ancient laugh lines and wrinkles caused by a cheerful past cast shadows, making him look older than ever. "Everyone has the ability to feel Innocence's raw power, but only the accommodators have the ability to produce this reaction. I'm sure you've experienced it before. In fact, I received a report from General Tiedoll not long ago regarding a redheaded boy he noticed in the Ukraine, who made his collected pieces act exactly like this..."

"We have tried to maintain a low profile," Bookman replied, "but sometimes, that is not possible."

"I have said nothing to the Order about knowing you or your whereabouts," Yeegar said, knowing that Bookman always wondered but would never ask. "You remain an illusive possibility that they hope to one day find."

"One day, perhaps, our paths will meet," Bookman answered vaguely, and said no more.

"Very well," Yeegar said, replacing the Innocence back into his coat as he stood up. He was not angry, merely defeated. A war with limited soldiers and an unlimited enemy could do that to a person. Bookman was amazed that a person could harbor no resentment, like Kevin. He truly was too kind. And because of that, when he died prematurely in battle—because he would, Bookman knew—it would be such a sorrowful day. "I hope to see you again, good friend."

"And you as well, good friend," Bookman said. And when he walked out the door, Bookman was left to wonder if he would ever see the kindhearted general ever again.

Something told him he wouldn't.

**pqpq**

When his apprentice woke, Bookman could tell immediately that it was not Darpan. Perhaps it was from the experience Bookman had in Lavi's mind that allowed him to discern this, realizing that every face he had seen there had been the same, yet completely different. Lavi had a specific presence, not necessarily look, about him that Bookman was easily able to distinguish from Darpan. He had never realized that it was easy to find this discrepancies if he looked and he had not thought about it until that very moment, where Rohan's words rang in his ears_ We are not Lavi_.

"I deleted him," Lavi said quietly, when Bookman questioned him about it. Behind Lavi's chair, the curtains blew gently in the early evening breeze, nearly carrying his voice with them.

"Why is that?" Bookman asked.

"He wanted to be," Lavi answered, and the way he looked guiltily at his bandaged hands made Bookman question him no further. He purposefully turned his eyes elsewhere, unable to look at how much damage the boy had taken from him. While under Seeker's control, Bookman had not realized he was attacking in the first place, and using the full amount of his strength. Where there were no gauze pads or bandages, Bookman could see dark black and blue marks on Lavi's body. "Anyway, Sagira says she's sorry. About hitting your head..."

"Where is the girl?" Bookman asked.

"Still in bed," Lavi replied, his voice low once again. "She had some internal bleeding, they said. And her ribs were in bad shape. But I think she's doing okay. After all, she's yelling just fine..." Bookman said nothing to this, not wanting to imagine the injuries he had inflicted upon that girl. She was barely a few years older than Lavi; still a child.

"I see," he said, noticing that the redhead was anxiously waiting for him to say something to fill the silence. That was all he received and Bookman could tell that it was not what he was hoping for. His expression turned guarded and more apprehensive as the moments wore on.

"Hey, Gramps," Lavi said softly, after a moment.

"Hay is for horses, brat," Bookman replied, just like he usually did. He wondered when that response had become such an easy routine. When he could not remember when it had started, he merely accepted it. In a way, he found it comforting.

"Jiji," Lavi said, and his voice was serious, eye looking straight down as his back became rigid. "Do you...not want me to be your apprentice anymore?" When Bookman did not answer immediately, he launched into an uncharacteristic, rambling explanation: "I mean, back there, I...I k-killed Seeker. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to break the spell and I thought...and then he moved and I...I just wanted to...you...and I..." It was the first time that Bookman had ever heard Lavi so close to hysterics before, so he was stunned into silence. With Lavi's gaze on the floor, Bookman had to wonder if he was fighting tears, as it sounded like it, especially when he said, in the most broken-sounding voice: "I just wanted to protect you...like you've always done for me..." He did not look up and Bookman saw him wipe quickly at his eye with the sleeve of his shirt. When he continued, it sounded as if Lavi had tried to make his voice sound a bit stronger, but could only manage to do it half-way: "But...I understand...if you...don't want me anymore...or if you can't because of what I did...it's okay, it's really okay..."

_Why do you sound like you want to die, then?_ Bookman wanted to ask. Throughout their travels, Lavi, no matter what name he held, wanted to be a Bookman. He trained diligently, even if it seemed like he did not, and soaked up knowledge like a sponge. There were not enough hours in the day for him to absorb history, literature, mathematics and science, but he tried just the same. Even though he still could not cook or make a strong enough arthritis salve, he was learning and everyday was another opportunity to him. Because of the situation, Bookman would admit it, but only this once to himself: Lavi, even with all his quirks and flaws, was the perfect choice to be his successor. The boy who sat diligently through the days and nights by his bedside would be his traveling companion for the rest of his life. There was no one else who could take Lavi's place. No one else who could provide the same amount of insight that Lavi had provided on their journey. And there was no one else who could become the Bookman after he perished.

No one at all, except for Lavi.

It was Lavi and had always been Lavi.

"Do you still want to be my apprentice?" Bookman asked, pretending he did not see Lavi wiping repeatedly at his eye.

"Yes..." Lavi said and his voice sounded thick when he added: "More than anything else..."

"Well, then that is settled," Bookman replied. He placed his palm on top of Lavi's head in a gesture of affection he would never vocalize.

"Junior."

**pqpq**

So you guys won't be able to see this, because FF. Net is conformist, but this chapter was totally written in a font called Bookman Old Style.

Made. My. Day.

What did not make my day/week? This chapter. It feels terribly shitty. It's all choppy and I just don't know what to do about it. Thoughts? Suggestions? Didn't notice?

-hopeful about the last one-

(Also, please point out any errors you found. I can't proofread this again without wanting to trash the whole thing)

New update either later this week or early next, so long as my writing block doesn't completely thrust my soul into a never ending pit of despair!

Loves muchly,

**Dhampir72**

**P.S. Go read the companion piece for this on my page**: **Chasm**.

(Well, if you want to -hides-)


	38. The Mezzogiorno

**Author's Thanks**: I'm still grateful for everyone who read/favorited/alerted this story. A special thank you to those who reviewed Bookman's last chapter: DevilChile, SilverKleptoFox, Chocobo Confectionary, Astaline Nihtingale, NellaXIval, Fall in Snow, Slip on Ice, Angel Fantasy, Maydn, winegoldsayuri, ruki, kuzon234ray, Lohikaarmesielu, Antaria, Saturns-Moon, Jengurl24, and Astarael-7th. **Also thank you to those of you who reviewed/favorited Chasm**: DevilChile, vinreiaya, RobotInTheRoom, MarciKupo, Chocobo Confectionary, Something, winegoldsayuri, Voltairey, BlueFox of the Moon, Miruial, Fyrearth, Angel Fantasy, Dreammaker Twilight, FcS, rmiller92, Sora Nadeshiko, Astaline Nihtingale, Saturns-Moon, weaverofstars, Jengurl24, Lohikaatmesielu and Astarael-7th.

**pqpq**

That night, Bookman dreamed.

He rarely did so, but a combination of drugs and a somewhat guilty conscious sent him into a world that he did not frequently visit. It was nothing like the vivid dreams he'd had before, where confusing jumbles and blossoms of color, smell, and even taste blended together. There was nothing except darkness and the sound like his feet were walking on glass again. His footsteps echoed loudly against the black floor. A chill hung in the air like a still, winter day high in the Himalayas.

_Jiji._

The voice rang out, softly, quietly. To his ears, it was distorted, as though it came from underwater. The coldness increased and his footsteps sounded louder than ever, sending cruel echoes into the expanse of black space around him.

_Jiji. _

It called again and when he turned his head to look for the source, he saw nothing to the left, or to the right. His breath created a whiteness that he could see in stark contrast to the black backdrop around him. When it cleared, a figure came into his line of vision: a familiar image of a redheaded boy wearing a Clan cloak. He did not raise his head and Bookman's recognition defaulted to _Lavi_.

_No. We are not Lavi. _

The boy lifted his head to gaze at him with a single green eye that burrowed deeply into him, like a rabbit attempting to create a space beneath the ground. Bookman could not remember the boy's name, watching mutely as he raised his arm and pointed with a ghost-like finger into the distance.

_Look._

Bookman followed the translucent finger, looking in the direction indicated. There came into sight another figure, but this one Bookman did not recognize. He was tall and that was all he could tell, as the person had his back to Bookman. There, a white cross on his coat stood out like a glowing beacon in the darkness. If he squinted, he could make out what looked like a splash of copper pigmented hair against the collar of that uniform. Was it...?

_Jiji._

The person turned slowly to face him. His clothes were ragged and dirty, smelling like ashes and freshly put out fire. Bookman saw that his left sleeve had been ripped, close to a cross upon his breast that was splattered with black droplets of dried blood. The shirt beneath the tattered jacket supported a huge tear, revealing his injured chest. Blood had soaked through it, dying the fabric a dark crimson. It dripped from the hem onto the black floor, where it made a sound like raindrops hitting a tin roof in a storm.

_Jiji._

The boy's lips moved, but the voice sounded softly against Bookman's ear, as if the word had come from behind him. He could only watch as one burned, blistered hand was lifted, stretching out towards Bookman as if reaching for him.

_Why?_

The question was posed to him with a quiet, but ringing, desperation. When the injured boy tried to step forward, he stopped, knees buckling so that he collapsed onto his hands and knees against the hard obsidian floor. Blood spattered onto the ground beneath him, dying the blackness scarlet. When his arms gave out, he fell and the sound of bleeding ceased, giving way to eerie quiet. No other words came from the fallen figure, which Bookman could not stop himself from walking towards to observe. Upon closer inspection, he found that the boy was more injured than he had first presumed. There was a gaping hole in his chest, as if his heart had been ripped from his body. A single, hazy green eye opened to look up at him, the rest of his bloodied face cast in shadow.

_Jiji, why?_

The words rang out, overlapping in echoes that went on forever. It was Lavi looking up at him with that expression, wearing that tattered coat with the Black Order's crest. It was Lavi who lay injured and dying at his feet. It was Lavi who was crying, diluting his blood into pink streams down his left cheek.

It was Lavi who was asking him _why, why._

_Why didn't you save me?_

The question continued to repeat itself softly in his mind long after Bookman woke. He lay in the clinic cot with the white sheets and tried not to analyze what he had seen. At the foot of the bed, the current Lavi had curled up in an uncomfortable-looking position that would only be suitable for a small cat. Beneath his arm, he held onto River's stuffed rabbit loosely in his sleep: the picture of childish innocence. Thinking back to when they had arrived in Cairo, Bookman realized that Lavi was no longer that small, underfed boy who he had taken as his apprentice a few years ago. In fact, Lavi's height had almost exceeded his own, and that was even more apparent upon observing his fetal-like position. Just the way his limbs seemed too long for his body let Bookman know that he still had a lot more growing to do.

He vaguely wondered if he would be as tall as the older image he had seen in his dreams: lying at his feet, weeping and bleeding asking _Why, why?_

Outside, Bookman heard light footsteps on the landing and the sound of the clinic door opening with a gentle creak. It distracted him from his thoughts and he held still, watching through half-closed eyes as a figure entered. From the outline, Bookman knew it to be female; from the height, a child of about twelve or thirteen. It had to be Sagira.

"Lavi," she whispered, confirming Bookman's assumption. When the boy at his feet did not stir, the girl entered into the room further, going as far as to actually shake the redhead awake.

"Whazzit?" Lavi mumbled, lifting his head to glance around. His gaze stopped on Sagira, who had crouched by the edge of the bed with an expression that Bookman could not see in the dark.

"Wake up," she told him.

"Akila," said Lavi sleepily, rubbing at his eye. It took Bookman a moment to realize that neither of them had referred to the other with the name of their previous persona. Had Sagira been deleted also? The base personality named Akila kept her position close to the floor, pulling on Lavi's cloak. "What'd you want?"

"I'm leaving," she whispered.

"Leaving?" Lavi repeated and Bookman felt the bed move only slightly as he sat up. The mattress dipped on the left side as Lavi slid out of bed, his feet making only the lightest of sounds against the wooden floor.

"You sleep with a stuffed animal?" she asked, and her tone sounded snooty, like Sagira again.

"It was given to me as a gift by a beautiful woman," was Lavi's reply, sounding as if he were bragging over that fact. But when Akila didn't say anything, his next words formed a serious question: "Why are you leaving?"

"Do you think I'm beautiful?" she asked. There was nothing but quiet after she asked. Bookman could hear ticking of a clock down the hall, signifying the passing of time. Lavi was probably as stunned as he felt.

"What does that have to do with you leaving in the middle of the night?" Lavi asked, recovering from the question that had most likely left him off balance.

"You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine."

"I'm not going to be here when those people from the Clan arrive."

"Why not?"

"Don't play innocent. You know what will happen to me."

"No, enlighten me."

"You're so ignorant," Akila said, but there was fondness in her tenor. "I'm a girl."

"This is relevant how?" Lavi asked.

"A girl cannot inherit a Bookman's seat," Akila explained. Bitterness dripped from every word like acid. "Seeker disregarded that. He took me in anyway." Bookman heard the sound of her hair brushing against her shoulders, probably as she glanced away from Lavi to look at the urn on the bedside table. "He said that if he trained me and I became the perfect successor, they would have no choice but to let me take on his title. Now that he's dead, I have no protection from the Clan."

"Protection," Lavi said, sounding as if he wanted to ask but did not know how.

"The Clan is an organization that likes its secrets. You should know that," she replied. "If I am no longer a part of it, what do you think they do to people who know too much?"

Lavi was silent for a moment and Bookman heard him move a bit closer to Akila in the dark.

"They're not…going to kill you, are they?" Lavi asked in a hushed whisper. His tension was broken by the gentle smack Bookman heard against the redhead's temple.

"Idiot, they're historians, not murderers," she said.

"No reason to get so violent…" Lavi mumbled.

"Oh, shut up," she told him, and the fondness was back again. On the floor, Bookman saw that their shadows were very close to one another.

"What will they do?" Lavi asked. Akila took in a breath. It sounded sharp, pained, like the way Lavi said, with a gaping wound in his chest _why didn't you save me?_

"They'll delete me entirely."

"Entirely?"

"I won't remember anything at all, from any Me. Not even from before Seeker. I won't remember any languages I've learned or books I've read or the facts that I've accumulated over the past six years," Akila said, and her form turned away from Lavi. "I don't know…what'll happen if I lose all of that…"

"So you're going to run away," Lavi said.

"Wouldn't you?" When she asked this, Bookman saw Lavi's shoulders shrug.

"Probably."

"You would, believe me. You would be like me, because you couldn't bear knowing you wouldn't remember anything," Akila replied, and her tone then became bitter once more as she added: "I won't be good for anything besides prostitution after that, because all I'll have is this body…"

"Then leave," Lavi said simply.

"I am," Akila answered, but she did not make to move from her spot. "But before I go, you've got to answer my question."

"What was it again?" Lavi asked, feigning forgetfulness.

"You know what I asked," she said. Her shadow moved closer to his, so that they formed one block of darkness on the floor in the moonlight.

"I don't think you're beautiful," Lavi told her.

"Really?" she asked.

"Really," Lavi said.

Bookman heard the clock ticking and the sound of a breeze coming in through the open window. He watched as their shadows did not part from one another for the longest time. Lifting his head slightly, Bookman saw why. Akila's arms had moved around Lavi's neck and they were pressed against each other in the dark. It was impossible to not know what they were doing.

"Really?" she asked again, when they parted. Her arms were still around him. Beneath her cloak, Bookman could see her silver jewelry shining in the moonlight.

"Really," Lavi said.

"You're incorrigible, Cyclops," Akila said, and her shadow parted from his. When she was at the door, she turned around. Her eyes did not fall on Bookman, but looked at Lavi with the most open of expressions. "Maybe we'll meet again someday. So don't forget about me."

"Hey, you know that a Bookman never forgets," Lavi told her and she smiled.

"Yes, a Bookman never does forget," she said.

And then she was gone.

**pqpq**

A few days after Akila left, the Inquisitors arrived.

They were affiliated members of the Clan who appeared in cloaks with matching tribal designs extending from the hem to shoulder. Since they were not official members of their organization, the colors and patterns on their clothing were different from Bookman and Lavi's, which easily indicated their rank within the hierarchy of their society. When the three of them arrived, they were polite, silent men, who regarded Bookman with a respect that he had not had the honor of receiving in quite a long time. Their dialect was heavy with honorifics.

Bookman knew that they had come with three intentions: to collect Seeker's ashes, to discover the cause of his death, and to find his apprentice. With the urn secure and the girl missing, they had managed to complete only one of their goals. The leader of the group had his orders, however, and took Bookman and Lavi into a sunny courtyard outside of the clinic to question them about the incidents. Lavi remained silent unless spoken to while Bookman smoothed over their story. It was easy to build upon Akila's previous account. He indicated that they had met up with Seeker and his apprentice on accident while following a lead on one of their own records. Afterwards, they had found themselves under the control of a group of desert men with historically relevant intentions. Upon following them, their party met misfortune. It was simple to be vague at this part, as both Bookman and Lavi showed outward signs of head injury. The quiet men seemed to accept this without any further question to the other Bookman's death. Accidents happened frequently and Bookmen rivalry was not even considered in the equation. In the end, it was recorded as merely another unfortunate event in a series of never-ending unfortunate events, and Lavi was clear from blame.

Not to mention the weapon used to kill Seeker had disappeared along with his apprentice.

After asking for a physical description of the girl and a quick account of the Black Order's involvement, the Inquisitors were finished. Taking Seeker's ashes with them, they left just as unobtrusively as they had come. Bookman knew they would look for the girl and idly wondered if she had managed to leave the country yet, if that was her plan. He recalled her quiet words in the darkness and the way her arms had moved around Lavi's neck. Actions like that were those that could not be tolerated.

"You're gonna die one day if you keep smoking," Lavi said from behind him.

Standing on the patio of the quiet hospital, Bookman had decided to have a cigarette after going days without the nicotine. He ignored Lavi's comment, leaning against the railing beneath the Egyptian sun. When the redhead did not get a rise out of him, Bookman heard him sigh. With a swift movement, Lavi hopped up onto the railing to sit on it, rocking backwards and then forwards on the thin metal support. The bandages around his forehead were gone, but Bookman could see the healing bruises on his neck and upon the bare arms not covered his sleeves. On the middle finger of his right hand, a silver ring Bookman had never seen before glittered in the midday sun. It must have been from Akila. He considered commenting on it, but decided not to.

"Do not cry to me if you fall and kill yourself," Bookman said instead, referring to the unstable railing and the three story drop that awaited him if he were to be careless. Lavi looked at him for a moment, but did not get down. However, his rocking stopped and Bookman watched as his bare feet curled around the lower bars to hold on a bit tighter.

"Where are we going from here?" Lavi asked.

"Calabria," Bookman replied.

"_È così_?" Lavi asked, accent sounding a bit off as the result of not speaking the language for so long. But even still, he sounded a bit excited at the prospect of traveling to Italy. "That's the _Mezzogiorno_, isn't it?"

((*È così? Roughly translates to "Is that so?" The Mezzogiorno is the word used to refer to Southern Italy.))

"Yes," Bookman said, taking a drag before exhaling.

"We're still looking for Simon then?" Lavi inquired.

"He is integral to our research," Bookman replied. Simon was the only person who had read the entirety of the Necronomicon. With their own copy missing, Simon was the last person who may have held information regarding the illegible portion of the spell book. There may have been more information regarding the Earl and the upcoming Event that was prophesied; information that Bookman could not find in _Der Geisterseher_ or _Count Cagliostro_.

"I thought you said that they were taking him to Rome?" Lavi said, as he started to lean back and forth on the railing again. When Bookman gave him a warning look, he stopped and held still once more.

"That was the information that Jahaar gave to us," Bookman answered, snubbing his cigarette beneath his boot. "The major port city is Reggio Calabria. If we sail there, we will be able to find the port ledger, which documents all incoming persons into the country, including their business and their destinations. Using that information, it should not be difficult to ascertain his location."

"What if he never went to Italy in the first place?" Lavi asked.

"It will just be another obstacle to overcome," Bookman said.

"Is that a nice way of saying we're basically fucked?" inquired Lavi.

"Basically."

**pqpq**

They managed to secure passage cheaply on a vessel in the port of Alexandria, where it was then a three week journey across the Mediterranean to reach Reggio Calabria. The warm waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea brought them easily into the port city, which was rife with activity. After so many consecutive days kept indoors on a cramped ship reading by bad light, land and the Mediterranean sunshine were a welcome relief.

"I can't wait to eat real food," Lavi said, as he scribbled his new name—_Dante Carmosino—_on the manifest with a loopy _C_ that left ink dots along the page. Bookman added _Giovanni Carmosino_ below the messy signature and bracketed their names. Beneath the heading for the reason for visit, he indicated that they would be visiting relatives in Calabria and Abruzzo. After stating their intent, they went through a customs line that did not take as long as Bookman thought. Once one of the officials saw their excellently forged passports (courtesy of two very helpful twins, whom Lavi had engaged in rapid correspondence with during the long weeks at sea), they were declared as returning citizens and allowed to bypass the line of traders and other transient visitors.

Once free from all governmental matters, Bookman had to see to domestic ones, keeping a steady hand on the strap of his apprentice's pack to prevent him from wandering off in the large market place. Because Reggio Calabria was a major trading port, the city was alive with a buzzing activity. Stalls selling goods from all over the world were set up on every block, smelling like coffee, spices, and exotic foods. Men and women pushed their wares: rolls of silk, indigo and saffron dyed fabrics, as wells as long strings of precious gems and beads. Gleaming silver weapons from the orient sat side by side the new streamline pistols and revolvers from other parts of Europe. People milled about every which way, buying and selling items, trading livestock or other food products for the new goods that were fresh off the ships.

"Don't wander off," Bookman said, pulling Lavi back towards him when he began to stray from their path once again.

"Can't help it…there's so much stuff to look at," Lavi replied, but managed to not deviate too badly afterward. In the end, when Lavi's wanderings took the both of them very close to a tempting stall, Bookman ended up purchasing a satchel of coffee and a tin of Chai tea from India, as well as fresh cloves from Indonesia. And because Lavi had been tolerable on the boat ride over, Bookman decided it would not hurt to reward him with a small bar of Belgian chocolate.

"What is that face for?" Bookman could not help but demand, when they seated themselves in an outdoor café on a quieter side street within the city. After receiving two chilled mugs of an Italian cream coffee at their table he had noticed it, but only decided to ask, while rolling some of his fresh cloves into a cigarette paper, exactly what had caused such an expression. Lavi had merely taken a single bite of his chocolate and one sip of his coffee when his single eye grew wide, as if with shock, like he had seen an accident from which he could not look away.

"I think I just died and came back to life. Twice," Lavi said, only breaking off a smaller, second piece of chocolate, which he savored for a few moments of silence. "Why have we never been here before?"

"We had no reason to come here before now," Bookman answered, and resumed rolling his cloves. Lavi finished chewing and then went back to his coffee; Bookman watched as his attention was repeatedly stolen by passerby on bicycle, which was a relatively new contraption that the boy had likely never seen before. Across the street, a baker opened his window so that the fresh smell of bread and pies wafted their way.

"Well, I think we should stay for a while," Lavi said, taking another sip of coffee, before adding: "and have this every day."

"You would become bored of it quickly," Bookman replied, sealing the cigarette before lighting it. It was like a breath of fresh air and spice that settled nicely on the tongue. Lavi looked at him doubtfully over the rim of his chilled mug. In the afternoon sunlight, Akila's ring had a shining clarity to it that bothered Bookman.

"How long are we going to be here?" Lavi asked.

"Until we find Simon," Bookman answered simply.

"Don't we have to make sure that he's here?" Lavi inquired.

"Of course," Bookman said, exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. "We're on our way to the archives now to make sure of that."

**pqpq**

Reggio Calabria had the nicest public archives Bookman had ever seen.

With its expansive marble floors, brass lamp fixtures, and excellently crafted internal structure, it certainly ranked highly in Bookman's opinion. Even though the prosperous era of the Crusades and the Renaissance had passed, Italy still remained a rich nation. Boasting its wealth and prestige was an aspect of the society that could be seen in the beautiful architecture, well-maintained streets and public works projects, as well as the ever-busy markets, shops, and educational facilities. The public archives, in fact, served the _Università Mediterranea di Reggio Calabria_, which attributed to the reason for its grandeur and busy atmosphere. Lavi stayed close to his side as they weaved among groups of students, professors, and civil servants in search of the correct room. Located on the third floor, Bookman found the Immigration and Transient Visitor annex, which was divided into separate sections according to date. In the small time period which Bookman estimated Simon to have arrived, there was an entire row stretching from floor to ceiling dedicated to the two weeks exclusively.

"We have a very busy day ahead of us."

**pqpq**

"Sometimes, I question my decisions…" Lavi mumbled, late in the afternoon. Over the record books in high piles around them, Bookman could not even see him. "My eye feels like it's going to _bleed_…"

"Do not complain," Bookman told him, although he wished that it would not harm the documents around them if he smoked while working. Despite the urge, Bookman knew how damaging smoke could be and made it a habit to not light up around any sort of valuable papers or tomes. Still, the thought circled a few times and he had to still his hand more than once from straying to the cigarette and matches in his cloak pocket.

"Not complaining…" came Lavi's voice from on the other side of the barrier. "Just stating true facts…"

"You are complaining," Bookman replied.

"Am not," Lavi said stubbornly, though his voice sounded slightly lighter than before. Bookman knew it well, from those nights where Lavi had tried to stay awake reading, despite the tiredness he could always see in his body and hear in the tenor of his voice.

"Do not fall asleep," Bookman warned.

"M'not," Lavi replied, though it was obvious he was lying. Bookman wadded up a spare bit of useless parchment he had been scribbling on and tossed it over the books in order to rouse his apprentice. He heard it make contact against Lavi's hair. "Heeeey, what was that for…?"

"Wake up," Bookman said.

"I'm awake," Lavi told him, and threw the ball of paper back towards Bookman. The old man caught it before it could hit him in the face. He wondered idly how Lavi had such good aim.

"Then be useful," Bookman replied, sending the paper ball back towards the redhead. Perhaps his own lack of progress had been a major attributing factor in the impromptu game of catch he had foolishly started.

"I am being useful," Lavi retorted, and Bookman heard him scribbling something before crumbling up more paper, probably to make their throwing object a bit bigger. "I think I found something too."

"Explain or do not say anything at all," Bookman told him, avoiding the parchment projectile aimed his way again. It fell onto his workspace and Bookman was just about to throw it back in annoyance when Lavi said:

"Look at that symbol and tell me what you think. It's the only one I've seen with a raised seal. Looks kind of official if you ask me…" Bookman unfolded the paper and took a glance at the icon on the page. It had been placed over the original seal, where Lavi had done a quick press to get an imprint in light charcoal. A design of two keys lay over each other, tied together with a length of cord that formed a cross in the direct center. Above this, there sat a three-tiered hat with two flowing lengths of fabric printed with the Holy cross.

"This is the Papal symbol," Bookman said. What Jahaar's men had reported seemed correct now: priests had come, collected Simon and returned to Italy. Although the party's destination according to the official roster in Alexandria had been Rome, Bookman knew that the Vatican had to be involved somehow. The official stopover point was Reggio Calabria and then onwards to the port in Rome, where Simon would eventually be brought to the Vatican, most likely for questioning.

And torture.

"The _what_?" Lavi asked, his voice sounding as if he thought Bookman had said something dirty.

"Bring the ledger to me," Bookman told him, without answering his question. On the other side of the towering wall of documents, Bookman heard scuffling and the shifting of papers. Lavi's chair scraped lightly over the floor and then the old man could hear his knobby knees on the tabletop. His red hair appeared over the giant pile, followed by the one tired eye, and then finally, the object in question. It appeared heavy to lift, and when Bookman took it, he found that it did have significant weight. Already open to the page, the coat of arms only verified his previous conclusion.

"So it's the whatsits symbol?" Lavi inquired, resting with his arms on the dangerously leaning pile of paperwork.

"This is the Papal coat of arms," Bookman repeated, reading the information next to the stamp. It had a neat, curved script that merely stated five priests were returning to Italy on business of his Holiness.

"And that means what exactly?" Lavi asked, looking bored. "And who is his Holiness anyway?"

"Surely you've heard of the Pope," Bookman replied, glancing up at the redhead. He made a thoughtful face, as if trying to recall a distant fact in the dusty annexes of his mind.

"Maybe," he finally said; Bookman threw the nearest quill at him.

"The head of the Roman Catholic Church," Bookman elaborated, watching as the redhead rubbed ink from where the quill had splattered black droplets on the back of his hand.

"Oh, so he's kind of important, then," Lavi said, though he made it sound like a question.

"Surely you understand that within the Catholic religion, the Pope is the chosen disciple of God, thereby making him a bit more than _kind of_ important," Bookman answered.

"So he's pretty much the most important person this side of Jesus, right?" Lavi answered, leaning his cheek into his palm. Bookman considered throwing something else at his ridiculous apprentice.

"Despite whatever opinion held of him, this proves to us that Simon entered the country," Bookman said, tapping the area beneath the description where, in small print it read: _Accom. 1pn. Cairo, et crt. _In shorthand, it meant that one other person accompanied the 5 priests. He had been without passport from Cairo, but had the same destination as the others on orders of his Holiness. If that was not Simon, then they would be fools, but the chances were slim.

Lavi brought him out of his thoughts.

"Because of that symbol? It's not even a good one. Who the hell puts a three-tiered wedding cake on their coat of arms?" Lavi asked, pointing at the object in question, which rested above the keys. If one truly looked at it, Bookman supposed that it could pass for a cake, but he only let that thought cross his mind for a moment. He was not about to give his apprentice idiotic leeway.

"That is the mitre," Bookman replied.

"The _what_ now?" Lavi inquired. Perhaps he was crashing from the sugar that had been in the chocolate and the caffeine that had been in the iced coffee, because his reactions were awfully slow. Mainly, the ones connected to his brain.

"The mitre," Bookman said again. "It is the hat that that the Pope wears to signify his authority."

"Oh," Lavi said, shrugging a bit as he slumped down over the shaky wall of ledgers. "Kind of looks like a cake. My mistake. And seriously, what kind of word is _mitre_ anyway?"

"It is much more preferable than the other word used to describe it, I'm sure," Bookman said.

"Which is?"

"Don't slouch. You'll give yourself a bowed spine."

"No I won't."

"Do not argue with me. You cannot possibly win."

Lavi yawned, as if suddenly uninterested in their debate.

"So can we leave now?" he asked sleepily.

"File everything back the way you found it," Bookman replied, "then we can leave."

"Fine, fine," Lavi said, but didn't move from where he still leaned against their pile. His eye was closed. "But first, you've got to tell me the other word."

"What other word?" Bookman asked, as he began stacking the record books in order of date.

"The other word for the hat thing."

"Mitre."

"Yeah. Martyr. Whatever it's called."

"It is also known as a tiara."

Lavi cracked open his eye to look at Bookman suspiciously, apparently not believing such a thing.

"Seriously?"

"Truly, yes."

"And this Pope person… It's a dude, right?"

"Of course the Pope is male."

"So...he's a man—"

"Yes."

"Who wears a hat—"

"A mitre."

"Yeah, a hat that looks like a fancy cake, whatever. But said hat also is called...a tiara?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence as Lavi's mind processed the information.

"I thought only _girls_ wore tiaras."

"You should truly refrain from speaking from this point on."

**pqpq**

Calabria was known for a lot of things: cheese, wine, and beautiful coastlines.

What Bookman forgot was that the southern tip of Italy also experienced alternating weather patterns that ranged from scorching heat to torrential downpours for more than half of the year. This resulted in a slow pace to the start of their journey. Not to mention uncomfortable sunburn.

"This is almost worst than Egypt. How is that possible?" Lavi grumbled from next to him. They were in a small town, seeking shelter from the sun under a canvas pavilion that jutted out from the side of a run-down establishment that served _pecorino protonese _over chilled _antipasti_ and a perfect _Curcùci._

((THE MORE YOU KNOW: _Pecorino _is a sheep cheese; made from the milk of ewes. Usually it's hard and used as a picking cheese—in our house anyway, haha—or over a salad such as an _antipasti_, but apparently you can put it over meat as well, like _Curcùci_, which is a kind of fried pork. It can also go over finished pasta dishes when it's grated. In my household, we bread our pork and fry or bake it in _mozzarella _or _parmigiano_, but some friends from that region say you can use _pecorino_ as well.))

"It is either this or continuous rain," Bookman replied, with a tone that said without saying _stop complaining_. Lavi just made a miserable sound and hid further under his cloak for protection from the unrelenting rays of sun. The backs of his hands were as red as his hair and beneath his hood, Bookman was certain that Lavi's burned complexion was the same shade. In the distance, the vineyards rippled in heat waves.

"At least the food is good…" Lavi said, leaning forward as he picked at the artichoke hearts in the remains of his _antipasti_.

"Eat those. They're good for you," Bookman told him.

"They're weird-looking," Lavi replied. His fork stopped when Bookman lit a cigarette, only returning to its light stabbing after he'd exhaled. "Hey, Gramps."

"What have I told you about that?" Bookman replied.

"Hay is for horses, yeah, yeah…" Lavi answered with a sigh. "Anyway, what are we going to do once we get to Rome? How are we supposed to find Simon?"

"Eat the rest of that and I will tell you," Bookman said. He never saw Lavi eat so quickly before, and the boy wasn't even through chewing when he made a gesture for Bookman to start explaining.

"Firstly, you must understand that Simon was taken to Vatican City," Bookman said, letting the ashes fall over the edge of the table. They were swept away by a hot, dry wind. "Because of this, the chances of us finding him are very slim."

"So…we're here why now?" Lavi asked, after he swallowed.

"For a second reason," Bookman continued, as if Lavi had not spoken. "There is a certain group located in the heart of Rome, which may have valuable information regarding Simon. Our interests tend to coincide for the majority of the time, and they have ancient connections with the Vatican, which makes them a valuable resource to us."

"Really? Is the Clan affiliated with them directly?" Lavi inquired. The way his body leaned forward a bit signified his interest.

"In a sense, we are mutual beneficiaries," Bookman answered.

"Who are they?" Lavi asked, tilting his head slightly in questioning.

"A group that considers their members to be enlightened men of mathematics, science, and literature, which thereby makes them quite the thorn in the Vatican's side," Bookman replied.

"You don't mean…" Lavi's eye was wide with understanding before Bookman could even answer.

"The Illuminati."

**pqpq**

After a few weeks of hard travel, they reached Valleranello in the region of Lazio.

It was a small area south of the province of Rome in the undeveloped countryside. A few meters out, one could find decrepit ruins of the ancient empire as well as sprawling fields of vegetables and vineyards for as far as the eye could see. About thirty kilometers away there was the bustling metropolis of Rome, with all its cramped space and rising population. Within less than half a day's walking distance, Vatican City sat amongst the high fashion, international cuisine, trading posts, and, of course, churches. That, however, was in the distance and a journey for Bookman, and Bookman alone.

"We will be staying here," Bookman informed Lavi, who looked around at the rural landscape with a bit of confusion.

"This isn't Rome," Lavi said.

"No, it is not," Bookman answered, and that was that. His plan all along was travel solitary to Rome. Apprentice or not, it was too dangerous for Lavi to be with him in the city. They held the continuous status of fleeing from the Black Order—a sect of the Vatican—and if caught, they would not be taken in kindly. Bookman knew better than anyone that the Church had its ways of making its enemies disappear from the pages of history.

He would not let Lavi be caught in the middle of that.

"Jiji?" Lavi said, but Bookman did not answer him. It brought back to mind the recurring dream he had been having, where Lavi kept asking him _Jiji, why didn't you save me?_ If he were to reply to that question, it would make him a hypocrite. Bookmen were not allowed to care, even about each other, so he could not tell the boy beside him his real motive.

_I just want to save you_.

"Let us see if we can find lodging," Bookman said, and Lavi quieted, most likely understanding that he would receive no answer at that time. Silently, he followed Bookman through the uneven cobblestone streets. With every inquiry to an inn or hotel, they found themselves turned away due to no vacancies. Apparently with summer fast approaching, it resulted in a rather busy tourist season. If places so far from Rome were already full, they would be lucky to find housing without backtracking further south. Instead of giving up, Bookman took their route outside of the small city. On the outskirts of the western part of town, the roads turned to hard dirt and gravel. An older, vine-covered building was the only thing that stood there, slanting a bit to the side as if it had become tired over the years of relentless heat and rain. Outside there stood a weathered post with an ancient hanging sign that read _Pensione_. In all directions, there were fields of crop that needed tending. A woman in her early fifties swept a crooked brick walkway beyond the rusted iron gate of the boarding house.

"We're not taking travelers," she said, in a heavy accent that left her words almost indecipherable. Head bowed, she hadn't looked up from her sweeping. A flowered kerchief covered her long, graying hair.

"None at all?" Bookman asked.

"Busy time of year," she answered. Behind her, the _Pensione_ was silent with vacancy. "Too many tourists around here. Go home."

"Surely we can come to an arrangement if you have a single room available," Bookman said. After years on the road, he had learned to bargain with people for their cooperation, even if it was a small room with no water closet and not a single meal included in the package.

"Don't have any. This place is closed," she replied, broom not stopping in sweeping the dusty brick. "Please leave. I have a lot of work to do. No time for tourists. There's too many of you."

"We're not tourists," Lavi told her. Over the past few weeks, his previous knowledge of Italian had only improved his accent when conversing with locals. The woman's broom stopped, but she did not look up.

"Where are you from then? You look like tourists," she said, and Bookman presumed she meant their haggard, worn appearances along with their packs.

"We're from Calabria," Lavi replied easily, as that had been their story throughout their travels. "We were in Greece for a few years, but we're back now. Gramps here is going to be a professor at _Università degli studi di Roma_. _La Sapienza_ has a really good history department." Even though Lavi was rambling a bit with useless information, he seemed to be doing it to keep the attention of the woman, who suddenly appeared interested in the two of them. She had even lifted her head to looked at the two of them for a long, hard moment.

"It's very hot today, isn't it?" she stated, irrelevant to the conversation, merely an observation. Silent, Lavi did not respond, as if he wasn't sure if the question had been rhetorical or not. The woman put her broom down and began walking back towards the house. "Come in out of the sun and have a drink." With that invitation, Lavi nudged the gate open and they stepped inside.

"Maybe she'll let us stay," Lavi said as they walked along the brick path.

"Perhaps," Bookman replied, ruffling Lavi's hair through the hood of his cloak. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around, kid."

"And here I thought it was for my charming personality and amazingly good looks."

"Brat."

**pqpq**

The woman's name was Letizia, but she insisted that they call her Lettie, because she hated that people from the south could not say the last syllable properly. She brought them freshly made lemonade that was a bit tart, but cold, so Bookman was no about to complain. Inside, the room boasted a cool temperature that was a relief from the outside swelter.

"Eat this, child. You're too scrawny," Lettie said as she pushed a plate of sponge cookies and fruit at Lavi. He made a face at the adjective, but accepted one of the desserts and began munching happily on it. While his apprentice ate, Bookman allowed his eyes to wander around the eat-in kitchen. It was an orderly space with little clutter and the smell of fresh oranges and bread. Certainly capable of supplying meals to quite a few guests, Bookman wondered at the adamancy the woman displayed towards people looking for a room.

"How long will you be in Valleranello?" she asked, for the first time directing her gaze towards Bookman. Her eyes were as blue as the sea, but guarded, hardened as the frown at her lips. Bookman knew that expression and wondered whom she had lost. Could it perhaps be the young, smiling girl in the portrait he could see beyond the kitchen doorway?

"We were planning on staying for several weeks. Until the university provides supplemental housing, we have nowhere to stay except at a _pensione_," Bookman answered.

"No relatives, then?" she asked, and her eyes were back on Lavi. The way she looked at him made Bookman's earlier assumptions only increase. She had lost a child, that was for sure. Whether it was that girl in the picture or not, Bookman knew that expression anywhere. He had seen it on too many battlefields; in war-torn villages where women wandered, hollow-cheeked and vacant-eyed on the charred, black earth seeking their dead children...

"None," Bookman replied.

"My rooms are not cheap," Lettie said. Although her voice was seriously stern, she urged Lavi to eat some more with a gentle, motherly affection.

"We can pay," Bookman said, because they could. The Clan's finances were extensive, allowing them to have connected accounts all over the world for Bookmen to utilize on their travels. Luckily Reggio Calabria had been one of those international locations, allowing for Bookman to replenish their dwindling monetary supply. He supposed that such a thing occurred when there were suddenly two instead of one traveling throughout the Eurasian continent.

"It will not be strictly in money, you understand," she informed him. "I have a lot of chores and upkeep on this place, so I'll need an extra pair of hands around here." Lavi stopped, mid-chew, when she directed her next question at him: "Boy, have you ever tended a garden before?"

"N-No," Lavi said honestly after he swallowed. It took him only half a second to understand the consequences of his answer—mainly sleeping outside in the humid nights and burning hot days—and so he added: "But I can learn. I'm a quick learner!"

"If you would help me, then the both of you can stay for half price," Lettie informed them, "but the work will not be easy." Lavi's shoulders slumped a bit, but he nodded in understanding.

"It wouldn't be easy, would it?"

**pqpq**

Bookman should have probably felt guilty for selling his apprentice out like he did, but the food was very good, the establishment clean, and bed comfortable.

The morning after they arrived, Lavi was roused early by Lettie, who had a list of chores so long, Bookman thought it could rival their record logs. Begrudgingly, Lavi got up and entered his servitude. His major chore throughout the day was carrying buckets to the well in town, filling them, and then dragging them back to the boarding house. He needed to do this several times a day to get water for cooking, cleaning, washing, and bathing. For someone who only weighed about eighty pounds soaking wet, it was probably the most exhausting exercise Lavi had ever encountered. This difficulty did not seem to become any easier as the days went on. While Bookman perused through volumes accumulated in their travels and through Manas and Ganesa, in addition to other record notes, Lavi was out in the garden beneath the hot sun. He weeded and watered as Lettie asked him to, running inside during the middle of the day to not suffer too badly from heat exhaustion. During these times indoors, Lettie made him help with preparations for dinner or setting him up to do some light cleaning.

"Lettie told me that she had a daughter," Lavi told him, on the third night when he had come to hide in Bookman's room in order to evade the late-night chores Lettie hounded him to do. Bookman watched as he bandaged up his blistering hands with light gauze as he said this. "She died about three years ago."

"This is important?" Bookman asked, not truly interested in the woman's story one way or another.

"No, not really," Lavi said, and paused in his work. "I guess I just have to wonder why women are always crying."

"They tend to do that," Bookman replied, and lit a cigarette.

"Why?" Lavi asked.

"Because, they do," Bookman said, beckoning for Lavi to come to him.

"I just don't get it," Lavi told him, allowing Bookman to tie off the end of the bandage in order to hold it in place. "You know, women."

"That is one mystery that can never be solved," Bookman replied.

"What?" Lavi inquired.

"Women," Bookman answered, and tied off the other end of the gauze around Lavi's other hand.

"Oh. You mean even the Bookmen don't know the answer to that?" Lavi asked.

"There are two questions that we do not know the answers to," Bookman said, leaning back once he was through with the bandages. He puffed on his cigarette and cracked open the window to let the cloud of sweet-smelling cloves and herbs out into the steamy night. "The first one concerns women."

"And the second?" Lavi asked. Bookman looked at him through the smoke.

"You'll learn that the day I die."

**pqpq**

By the fifth day, Lavi's fair skin had been burned so badly that Bookman could tell the lightest touch of his clothes caused extreme pain. In addition to that, his hands had worsened from their previous state: blistered and rubbed raw from all the manual labor. It had developed to the point that it was so bad, he could not even hold a quill. During dinner, he ate little and said nothing, even when Lettie tried to get him to speak with her kind, motherly tone. It left Bookman to do more talking than he liked, but he figured that it was a good trade for what Lavi was putting up with every day. That night, the redhead went straight to bed and did not even attempt to stay up reading or helping Bookman in any manner. He wasn't resentful (yet), just exhausted. The most strenuous activity Bookmen engaged in was walking, so those chores were not something Lavi was built for.

"Get up," Bookman told him, on the next night, when he had fled to his room after doing the dishes. His apprentice was already under the sheets, where his bare back looked like fire against the white cotton. His head moved against the pillow as he shook it _no_. "Go into the bath, right now." Bookman had poured three of the waiting buckets in the bathroom into the small tub for that purpose, knowing that the cool water would help alleviate the agony of his burns. Slowly and shakily, Lavi pushed himself up and turned around to face Bookman. His chest was as red as his back, as were his legs and feet. The old man had no idea how he had gotten so sunburned while wearing clothes.

"Tired," Lavi said, voice thick with exhaustion.

"Sleep in the bath. Go," Bookman told him. As if on autopilot, Lavi obeyed. He was only wearing a pair of loose, knee length pants, but at that moment, cared not for modesty and followed Bookman's order. The old man listened as he opened the door, then closed it, and then stepped into the tub.

"SHITFUCKDAMN THAT'S COLD!" came Lavi's jumbled swear in a mixture of Nepali and English. The water made a splashing sound and Bookman knew that he would try to escape; if he did not soak in it, then it would do him no good. Putting a stop to his actions, the old man went to the water closet and opened the door. Lavi was kneeling in the tub, arms around himself as he shook violently. His red face flushed further crimson when he saw Bookman and he asked: "Ever hear of knocking?"

"Sit back down," Bookman told him.

"It's _frigid_," Lavi said, still trembling as he made a motion to get out. Bookman crossed the bathroom in two steps and placed his palm against the top of Lavi's head, effectively pushing him back down in the water. He was so hot that Bookman's hand felt like it was burning just touching him.

"You need to get the heat out of your body," Bookman told him, sitting on the edge of the tub with his back to Lavi to give him some sort of privacy. But still, his hand remained on the top of his head to keep Lavi from moving. Bookman felt his blistered hands pushing at his wrist in a weak attempt to escape, but the old man kept a firm pressure against Lavi's hair so the action was futile.

"Stop _iiiiiit_…." Lavi whined, his body still shaking.

"It's for your own good," Bookman told him and Lavi made annoyed, pouting sounds for the next few minutes that he was kept prisoner in the cold water. Once it had been a sufficient amount of time, Bookman released him and stood up to leave. "You can get out now." He was barely out the door when he heard the sound of sloshing as Lavi leaped out of the chilled water. When his apprentice had dried off and returned to his room, Bookman was waiting for him. Lavi stood in the doorway with a towel over his shoulders, single eye suspicious of him and body tensed to run away at a second's indication that Bookman planned to torture him again.

"What else do you _waaaaant_?" Lavi asked, nervously backing up towards the hallway.

"Do not be such a dramatic," Bookman said, pulling a chair from the desk. "Sit down." He saw Lavi swallow nervously before he took light, careful steps towards the piece of furniture. His eye was wary, but he obeyed and climbed up into the seat. Immediately, Lavi wrapped his arms around himself, as if to prevent Bookman from looking at him. When he neared the boy, however, Bookman saw that it was because he was still shaking from the bath. He trembled even more when Bookman removed the towel and placed it on the desk.

"What's that?" Lavi asked, as Bookman removed a glass jar from the sleeve of his _kuzhe_.

"Poison," Bookman replied, opening it. The room smelled heavy and sweet.

"Really," Lavi said.

"It is."

"As long as my death is quick and painless, I'm not going to argue at this point..."

"This is fresh aloe, you dolt," Bookman said, putting the jar into Lavi's raw palms. He went and cracked the window slightly, lighting a cigarette before taking a long drag.

"Aloe?" Lavi repeated, smelling it. He made a face. "It's strong. Where'd you get it?"

"I went to the apothecary in town today," Bookman replied, because it was true. He had walked down the dirt path into the city after Lavi had made his first few rounds with the pails of water. He had been out in the tomato patch when Bookman departed and hadn't noticed his return either.

"Why?" Lavi asked.

"I needed a few things," Bookman said. The aloe had been an afterthought, as there had been more important things on his mind at the time. Lavi did not ask him anything further, smelling the aloe again as Bookman left the sill and neared him.

"I think Enoch had a plant like this in his office. Somewhere…"

"Most likely, as aloe is quite useful. The substance inside is utilized to alleviate burns and heal minor cuts," Bookman said, dipping his fingers into the cool salve. "Put your head down." Lavi did so and Bookman watched as his shoulders tensed when he smeared the aloe over the red skin.

"It's cold," Lavi said, body trying to move away from Bookman's touch.

"Do not fidget," Bookman told him, pushing his head back down into its previous position. He kept his cigarette at the corner of his mouth as he worked, puffing it while slathering more aloe onto Lavi's back. He rubbed it into the heated flesh, where the old scars seemed to be faded white lines beneath the burn. It was like the time after the Qandahar incident, where Bookman saw but did not ask as his fingertips moved over each protruding vertebrae and rib. "You need to eat more. You really are scrawny."

"I am not," Lavi said, lifting his head defiantly. Bookman pushed it back down and completed the back, moving to Lavi's arms.

"If a strong gust of wind came along, it would blow you away," Bookman said, feeling Lavi shiver and try to move away from him again.

"Why is this stuff burning?" Lavi asked, and began wriggling around once more.

"In case you haven't noticed, you have a serious burn on your body. This is not going to heal without some pain," Bookman replied, doing the other arm as well. "And what did I tell you about fidgeting?"

"Burns," Lavi reminded him, as Bookman moved over the shoulders and down to his red chest.

"Do not be a child," Bookman told him.

"'m not…" Lavi whined childishly, scrunching up his face in an over-dramatic wince. Bookman ignored him and puffed out some more smoke as he smoothed more aloe on Lavi's injured skin. Lifting up the cord around his neck to get beneath it, the old man noticed that in addition to the rupee he had seen before there was also a golden ring that looked quite familiar.

"I see that you're keeping Sir William's ring quite close," Bookman commented, in order to distract Lavi as much as it was to get some more information. The Royal Marine's gift remained around his neck, but Akila's rested on his finger. He wanted to know if there was a reason for it.

"Who's Sir William?" Lavi asked, cracking open his eye to look at Bookman questioningly.

"The owner of that ring," Bookman replied, dropping the necklace and its two pendants back onto Lavi's chest.

"So it did belong to someone…" Lavi mused aloud, "I was wondering where it came from."

"I take it that you do not remember Greece?" Bookman asked.

"Hmm…" As Lavi thought, his leg jerked when Bookman applied some aloe to the burns below his knees. Finally he said: "No…not really. I remember that book and…" Bookman watched as he paled a bit beneath the red complexion upon recalling a memory. "Did I wear a _dress_?"

"For a while, yes," Bookman said.

"I thought…it might have just been a dream…a terrible, terrible dream…" Lavi murmured, looking horrified.

"That is what you said back then as well," Bookman replied, recalling Lavi's return to consciousness, where he had awoken from his hypnosis-placed persona to realize what had become of him.

"Why did you make me wear a dress again?" Lavi asked. "Run this by me one more time?"

"How did you burn your feet?" Bookman asked, looking at the blood-red tops of Lavi's toes and the identical crimson ankles.

"You try gardening in hiking boots and see how you like it," Lavi said. "And how is that relevant to me wearing a dress?"

"And that other ring. A gift from Akila, I take it," Bookman said.

"Yes, she gave it to me," Lavi replied, "but that's still not relevant to why I had to wear a dress."

"Why don't you not concern yourself with the past," Bookman suggested, wiping his hands free of aloe on Lavi's towel once he was through.

"You're the one asking," Lavi pointed out.

"So are you," Bookman said and Lavi looked frustrated because he knew it was true.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" he asked. Bookman did not answer, taking the jar of aloe from Lavi's hands. He screwed the lid on tightly before taking his cigarette and finishing it off. Snubbing it on the sill, he then closed the window and locked it shut.

"You should go to bed," Bookman replied. He heard the chair scrape quietly against the floor and then Lavi's soft footsteps against the floor. The sheets moved back and the mattress creaked slightly, but that was all.

"You'll at least tell me before you go, right?" Lavi asked. When Bookman turned around, he could see Lavi's single eye peeking out over the top of the blanket at him. Bookman crossed the room and placed the jar on the edge of the bed.

"Put the remainder of this on your face," Bookman instructed, without answering him, "you're as red as a tomato."

"So you're not going to say anything, are you?" Lavi asked. Bookman could tell that he was annoyed, and found it strangely endearing.

"Go to bed," he said, and made for the door.

"If you die, old man, I'll be pissed," came Lavi's voice when he was in the hallway.

"Good night," Bookman replied.

"Geezer," Lavi said from the other side of the door. Bookman ignored him, walking down the corridor to his own room. In the darkened space, he closed the door and allowed himself to smile only slightly, shaking his head.

"Brat."

**pqpq**

**Bonus scene**

**pqpq**

A Bookman was a master of many things: mathematics, literature, law, psychology, hypnosis, science. As a historian, it was necessary to understand those things that were integral pillars of the World in Which We Live. Therefore, Bookman himself had a great knowledge of many things.

One of those many things happened to be poison.

There was a subtle art to creating poison. It required a certain blending of herbs, roots, and saps that worked in tangent with one another to bring about the desired result. In the inventory of the world, there were endless combinations and therefore, possibilities when it came to creating poison. The perfect kinds were those that worked quickly and left no traces. Those, in Bookman's opinion, were the most beautiful.

In a pill form, they were easily transported and utilized, which was why he shaped them that way instead of in vials containing bitter liquids like in the ancient days. When he was through, Bookman left the fresh tablets on the windowsill, where they sat with a quiet superiority. Man's downfall rested inside of them, giving those tiny white spheres the greatest of powers. Bookman smoked and observed them silently, fingertips stained purple and black from his work. Around him, the house slept, while outside, the still, stagnant air gathered humidity for the upcoming dawn. Inside his head, he heard Lavi's voice resonate quietly:

_Jiji._

He exhaled as he removed his earrings, setting down the silver cases upon the tabletop. The braided pattern cast shadows upon the metal in the moonlight. It seemed ominous, just like the journey he was about to undertake. Nothing felt safe about any of it, which was why he wanted to take precautions.

_To my successor—_

Within the depths of his pack, Bookman removed a lacquered cylindrical object. At each end, there was a domed brass cap that supported the same, familiar Clan pattern of interlocking lines and symmetrical, Celtic-like shapes. However, around the outside of the object, it was devoid of these decorations. Instead, a series of interlocking letters, numbers, and symbols were arranged on nine, evenly spaced dials. It had lasted through time: a tradition that continued due to the same amount of care put into preserving history. And when the correct figures clicked into place, the right end cap opened. Inside...

_Upon my death, this letter shall be passed to you._

There were only a few things that could be held inside such a device. Usually, it was utilized to hold the most important information a Bookman possessed. That was the reason for the password needed to open the object. If the wrong sequence was used, it triggered spring inside, which let an acrid substance similar to vinegar bleed into the documents, thereby destroying the secrets forever. When Bookman reached inside, he could hear the old liquid as it moved from one side of the cryptex to the other. From inside, he removed an old, faded piece of parchment. It had been preserved perfectly for many, many years.

_Once I depart this world, my name becomes your name. _

_My secrets become your secrets. _

_My lies become your lies._

Without reading the words he had memorized decades ago, Bookman set the scroll aside and tipped the cryptex over. Two heavy, silver rings clattered onto the tabletop. Tarnished with age, Bookman picked one up and held it against the light. It had been a long time since he had seen the earrings he had worn in his old apprenticeship years. They were small and foreign compared to the pair he usually supported.

_Within the next few pages, you will come to understand your new position completely. Only with my passing comes the complete assimilation to the name Bookman. You will understand that, my apprentice, as you read on._

Bookman cleaned both pairs of earrings: the old and the new. Then, he dried them in the warm summer air. Beside the silver jewelry, the poison had cooled. But Bookman waited until the hollow insides of the earrings had dried before inserting the tablets. This was after he had written a letter, much like his master had done for him prior to his own death, and sealed it with a wax stamp. Once through, he put it into the cryptex. Everything his master had told him had been included, even the same, impersonal way of speaking. There was not a trace of fondness in his words; merely a business transaction as a title was shifted from one person to another. As Bookman closed the lid and heard the lock slide back into place, he tried not to think about Lavi's concerned voice and the way he sounded when he said—

_Jiji_.

His fingers clenched around the lid, bringing forth a low sound against the brass fixture at the top. In its surface, there were several characters carved in a flourishing script.

_By three methods may we learn wisdom. First, by reflection, which is noblest. Second, by imitation, which is easiest. And third, by experience, which is the most bitter._

C_onfucius_

The quote was a clue to the apprentice on how to open the device. Every one had made it through the test, because the cryptex had remained the same for hundreds of years, passed down between master and apprentice. The code had always been the same and would continue to be the same, long after Bookman was gone and Lavi was as well: the tradition carried on for hundreds of thousands more years.

But at that moment, Bookman was only concerned with the current moment, where he was preparing prematurely for death and cooling poison on the windowsill, letting it harden in the bowls he had used the grind the ingredients, allowing the bitter, burning substance to coagulate on his fingertips. He had come too far to turn back and even if he hadn't, the current path was the right one. Bookman knew and that was why he had done everything the way he did. In all of it, though, he could not think of Lavi waking and finding him gone, because the image of his not-even-ten-year-old apprentice's lost expression would gnaw at him up until the very second of his death. The guilt almost made him lose resolve.

But it didn't.

First, Bookman took up his old pair of apprentice rings and put them in. They felt lighter compared to his usual pair, though there was significant weight to them with what lay inside. Once they were secure in his ears, he took up the cryptex and the pair of braided earrings, heavy with fresh poison tablets, and left his room. The house, silent still in the early hours, heard not a footstep on the landing or the quiet creaking of the door as he entered. Lavi's breath remained even with sleep, even when Bookman set the cryptex down on the nightstand and the earrings silently beside it. Nothing altered from its present course when Bookman touched Lavi's hair with a gentleness he knew meant he cared too much. And nothing stirred when he shouldered his pack and left before first light.

**pqpq**

_Rambling apology here:_

Sorry for the late update DX Last week, I got a double wammy: my cat was poisoned and had to go to the vet to get treatment. $245 later, she got better, but then my mom called and said that she had to go in for a $2000 CT scan for some pain she's been having. Followed by another $200 in medical bills/medication for her and she's finally getting better. Needless to say, I've been stressed and pulling double shifts to try and help out. Let's just hope everyone is done getting sick for a while so I can be less of a spaz...

_Notes_

Akila's name is the equivalent to Intelligence in Egyptian.

Letizia means happiness in Italian.

Dante—Lavi's new persona's name—translates to "enduring" in Italian, which is important in the next few chapters.

The surname _Carmosino_ belongs to my family.

_**Chapter closing**_

So, I love Bookman being a hypocrite, because we all know he is and tries to fight it so badly. Next chapter, he peaces out to go to Rome, which will be a lot of blah, blah, blah once he meets the Illuminati and whatnot, but Lavi will show up (and there will be much angst?) so don't write him off completely! Also, Sagira/Akila was waaaaay too much fun. She'll be back, as will a certain Royal Marine twit by the name of Sir William, because he's too lulzy NOT to get some more screen time (page time? chapter time? whatever!) All kinds of good stuff coming up soon! I'll do my best to update again by the end of this week (we'll see) because you guys had to wait so long. Sound good? Let me know what you think about anything. **Thoughts, crit, undiluted praise/worship are always appreciated.**

Thanks for all your continued love and patience,

**Dhampir72**


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